The soft scent of pine filled the afternoon air as wewalked to and from Lamar Park. I couldn't help but think about when I was youngand still had a live-in dad. My mom was allergic to pine trees and my dad wasalways the one to handle the tree, or she would break out in hives. My dad alwaystook us with him to look for the perfect tree, and we always found it. When wegot home, Mom would try to stay away from the tree, but she couldn't help butgive us a hand with the decorations. My brother and I would fight ferociouslyover who would get to put the star on top. We lived out this tradition for threeChristmases and then he left. Well, my mom divorced him, as far as I know. Fromthen on, all we got were fake trees because of my mom's allergy. We assembled ourChristmas tree; how festive. We would fluff out the branches, if you could callthem that, and all I thought was, If only Dad were here to go pick us out a realtree with real pine scent and the needles that fall on the ground and get stuckin your feet. I miss that feeling. Now I go over to my dad's house and get thepine needles from his tree stuck in my feet. I smell the scent at his house, withhis new wife.
Walking on the sidewalk that day, smelling the pine, Iremembered those Christmases and how I felt, and how different it feels at mydad's new house without my mom.
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