"I don't believe it." Hands on hips, I stood in front of
the large, white tent. No happy shoppers bustled in and
out. No All I Want For Christmas is You blasting from a
boom box. No holiday cheer at all.
Instead, I found under the same ol' Axel's Christmas
Trees neon sign, which wasn't flashing, a notice, which
looked to be hastily printed and stuck on the tent flap
with gray duct tape: Closed. Heart attack. And as an
afterthought: Pray.
I shook my head, saying to the nippy wind whipping my
hair, ""Poor Axel. This is horrible. Where will the funds
for the Sommerville Hospital come from?""
My stomach kinked into a hard knot as I hugged my tote
to my waist. I'd been buying my Christmas tree here
since...forever. Definitely since I was a blossoming idea
in my parents' mind. Mom and Dad brought my brother and me
to Axel's the first Saturday in December every year for the
family tree. Who could forget the ensuing arguments over
the perfect one—Mom usually won—and the joy of
trimming it.
All grown up, I continued the tradition. Axel had the
most beautiful trees. The stand benefited the hospital;
this year, the children's cancer wing where his grandson
had undergone treatment for leukemia. He
always–always–always stashed aside a
seven–foot Fraser fir for me. Nothing spelled
Christmas better than a fresh, North Carolina Fraser fir.
Now what do I do? Where do I go? Should I call Axel's
son and see if he needs anything?