Cornerstone

It was bigger once, the space between the ceiling and the floor, or so it seemed. This corner of the parlor was always reserved for our Christmas tree growing up. Dad would always bring home the biggest tree, my mother half heartily questioning why he would never settle for less. Its branches would stretch out infinitely engulfing the entire wall, the entire room. Its top brazenly scraped the ceiling so so high up, alterations were always needed for the angel to fit. Decorating alone was a week long affair, so many miles of lights, ornaments and tinsel for hands so small. And once complete, the illumination was so extravagant that it traveled across the entire house and into our very bedrooms. It was comforting, it was the becon of Christmas and all that came with it.

This was all before the door was installed, the one with the big oval window. It was a necessary exit to the ramp outside, and the ramp a needed path for the wheelchair that soon followed. The space never seemed so big after that, and with it, the trees were never the same. You couldn't have such a grand tree near a door and exit with so much glass. So the trees were moved away, and with them their size diminished year after year. After some time, there ceased to be a tree at all, a bothersome luxury in an age of adults.

This white fabrication is what remains of the corner and its holiday light, but it does its job well. The door, once a hinder for our trees, now works tirelessly to let in so much artificial light, as if to make up for the past. A holiday sentinel, shinning brightly in the cold night, beckoning us to never forget. This corner is everything that once was, and has never been since.