Suddenly it’s December, and now is the time to revive one of our most beloved family traditions—putting up the Christmas tree. The children have been badgering me about it as early as October, and the other Sunday I was prepared to finally give in to their wishes except that I was stuck in traffic on Edsa and came home too late.
Everyone in the house was asleep by the time I sneaked in. The kids gave me the cold shoulder for several days after that.
But tonight, with the table already set for dinner, my youngest daughter Laya took matters into her hands and led her siblings in retrieving the boxes of old decorations, including the box where we keep the collapsible parts of the Christmas tree, from the dusty shelves on top of the huge dresser in their bedroom. Her decision put an emphatic end to my procrastination.
There was a time when the simple act of assembling the parts of our tree was a big deal to me—as big a deal it is now to these children who fill the house every day with their laughter and frequent fights. I used to have the same knack for badgering my parents and siblings—I happen to be a youngest child—for everything I craved until they finally relented. But that was a very long time ago, when it was my turn to be young and exuberant.
I still recall the joy my entire family felt one cold December night, almost 30 years ago when my oldest sister, who was just starting to work and earn her own money, came home with that Christmas tree in a box. If I close my eyes and bring myself back to that moment, I can clearly smell the pleasant scent of plastic emanating from the box the first time I opened it; I can clearly see the sparkling green leaves and dark brown trunk and branches, every piece of the tree in crisp mint-condition, appearing to glow against our living room light.
I remember that each one of us helped put the tree together, piece by piece, very excitedly arguing which leaf or branch went where, making a big fuss over seemingly missing parts until they were eventually found. And then, at long last, lo and behold, it was finally done. Our first and only Christmas tree stood proud for the first time in the middle of the living room, a monument to our collective effort and excitement. It all seemed like yesterday. I can’t believe it was almost 30 years ago.
Today, the thought of having to assemble it again no longer elicits as much excitement in me. The sweet smell of plastic has since been replaced by the storm of dust that would fly as soon as the box was opened, sending me into a frenzy of allergy sneezing.
The leaves have withered with time and lost their glow. Like most old plastic objects, the trunk and branches would threaten to break if one squeezed them too tightly to force them to fit. But one thing never fails to amaze me: the effect it has on my children. The Christmas tree has always been there from the first day of their lives, and hopefully will still be there long after I am gone, when they themselves would have their turn in raising their own children.
In the past, the kids, then barely able to walk, would watch their mother and me assembling the trunk and branches. They would help with the decorations, each rapt in hopeful anticipation for the moment when the tree would be ready for its star. Who would get the honor of being hoisted on my shoulders to fix the star on the treetop? And then we would turn off the lights in the house to have total darkness for the final act of lighting the tree. The kids would do some crazy dance steps and sing their favorite Christmas carols until they were hoarse, until they were exhausted. Only then would we have dinner together.
The times have changed, but not all family traditions. However, there has been a reversal of roles. Now it’s the children who assemble our Christmas tree while we parents watch from the sidelines. Everyone is taller than the tree now except for the youngest, Laya, but in a few years she, too, will be. I don’t take as active a role in this simple family tradition as I did in the past, preferring to sit on the couch while the kids do all the work. But I always make it a point to be around for this moment because I don’t want my children to lose the magic that goes with it. I long to feel the same way that I did back then.
One of the peculiar things about families is the value we associate with the things that we have. People would always equate value with the price tag attached to everything. But there are truly special cases when our sense of appreciation is not measured in terms of money, and we must strive to preserve this feeling if only to remind us that our humanity is grounded and intact.
This Christmas tree has always been with us—in good times and in bad times, during days of abundance when gifts overflowed at its foot, and during times of desperate need when there was none. We managed to put up this tree during the worst Christmas of our lives when the entire family was stricken with grief over my father’s passing. I can’t imagine getting a new one. This tree has become as irreplaceable as Christmas itself. In fact, I would probably include in my last will and testament who among my children gets to keep our old tree. It isn’t worth much, and it’s not for me, a modest person, to pretend to have the right to bequeath to anyone anything of value because I simply cannot afford to do it.
But this tree is important to me, and I want my children to know that I would be giving it away with all my love and affection, together with the special bond of priceless memories that I believe have always kept our family together.
If this Christmas tree can speak, it would probably tell you that.
Adel Abillar is a private law practitioner with a small office in Quezon City where, he says, “I alternate between being boss and messenger.” He obtained his law and prelaw degrees from Manuel L. Quezon University and the University of Santo Tomas, respectively.