Pine Pitch and Duct Tape

The tree was winning. It had leverage, mass, and a spiteful center of gravity that defied physics. Julian grunted, his cheek pressed against the rough, damp bark, smelling the sharp scent of raw pine and the distinct, muddy odour of the car roof it had just come from. Needles dragged across his neck like tiny, serrated knives.

"Pivot," Sam said. She was standing by the television, holding a mug of tea that looked infuriatingly warm. Her stance was critical. Analytical.

"I can’t pivot," Julian wheezed. He was pinned between the doorframe and the dense lower branches of the seven-foot Douglas Fir. The hallway was too narrow. The world was too narrow. "It’s stuck on the coat rack."

"It’s not stuck. You’re just forcing it. Wiggle it."

Julian wiggled. The tree shuddered, shedding a cascade of brown, dead needles onto the hardwood he had vacuumed three hours ago. A branch snapped back and whipped him in the ear. The cold rain from outside was still clinging to the boughs, soaking into his flannel shirt, making the fabric heavy and gross against his skin. It was November. Late November, sure, but definitely still autumn. The leaves outside were a wet, rotting paste on the sidewalk, and the wind hammering the window sounded angry, not festive. Yet here they were. Bringing the forest inside.

"Harder," Sam said.

Julian planted his feet. His socks slipped on the floor. He heaved. With a sound like tearing canvas, the tree popped through the doorway, taking a paint chip from the trim with it. Julian stumbled forward, hugging the beast, and nearly capsized into the coffee table.

"Okay. It’s in," he said, breathing hard. He wiped a smear of sap from his forehead. It didn't come off; it just spread, tacky and grey.

Sam took a sip of tea. "It looks crooked."

"It’s lying on the floor, Sam. Of course it's crooked."

He stood up, cracking his back. The room felt smaller instantly. The tree took up all the oxygen. It was a dark, looming presence in the corner, smelling of wet woods and impending labour. This used to be magic. That was the scam. When he was eight, the tree just appeared. He’d walk into the living room and his dad would have it up, lights glowing, smelling like cinnamon and heat. Now, at thirty-four, Julian knew the truth. The tree wasn't magic. The tree was agricultural labour transported to a carpeted room.

"Stand," Sam said. She pointed to the red metal contraption in the corner.

"I know. I'm getting it."

The Iron Maiden

The stand was a relic. Painted a chipped, aggressive red, it consisted of a water bowl and four rusted eye-bolts that had clearly been designed by someone who hated human fingers. Julian lay on his stomach, cheek mashed into the carpet. The dust smell down here was intense. He’d missed a spot with the vacuum.

"Lift it up," he commanded from the floor.

Sam grabbed the trunk. "It’s heavy."

"I know it's heavy. Just... lift. Straight up."

The trunk rose. Dirt crumbled from the cut stump, landing in Julian's eye. He blinked, tearing up, but didn't let go of the stand. He shoved the metal bowl under the wood.

"Okay, drop it."

Thud. The impact vibrated through the floorboards.

"Now hold it straight," Julian said, his fingers grasping the first rusted bolt. It wouldn't turn. Of course it wouldn't turn. It was fused with the sap of ten Christmases past. He exerted pressure, the metal biting into the soft skin of his thumb. Nothing. Friction burn. Pain.

"It’s leaning left," Sam observed from above.

"I haven't tightened anything yet!"

"I’m just telling you. It’s listing. Towards the window."

Julian gritted his teeth. He grabbed the pliers from his back pocket—he had come prepared this year—and clamped them onto the bolt. With a screech of metal on metal that set his teeth on edge, the screw turned. One rotation. Two.

"Okay, that's one side. Rotate me."

Sam tried to spin the tree. The stand spun with it, scratching the floor.

"No, hold the stand! Spin the tree!"

"I can't, the branches are in my face!"

"Just..." Julian rolled onto his back, staring up into the dark undercarriage of the fir. It looked like a spider habitat. "Okay. I'll move."

He crab-walked around the base. Second bolt. This one was loose, spinning freely until it hit the wood, then stopping dead. He cranked it. The tree shifted.

"Too far right," Sam said instantly.

"Adjust it then."

"I am holding it with both hands, Julian. You adjust the screws."

"If I loosen the right one, it falls on you."

"Risk it."

He loosened the right screw. The tree lurched. Sam grunted, planting her feet. Julian tightened the left screw. He tightened the back screw. He tightened the front screw. His hands were black with grease and pine pitch. His knuckles were scraped raw against the carpet.

"Let go," he said.

Sam hesitated. "I don't trust it."

"Let go. We have to see."

She released the trunk and stepped back. The tree stood. It held. Then, slowly, with the majesty of a falling empire, it tilted three degrees to the south-east.

"Good enough," Julian said. He wasn't fixing it. He physically couldn't.

Sam tilted her head. She squinted. "Yeah. We can put the heavy ornaments on the other side. Counter-balance."

"Exactly. Physics."

The Gordian Knot

Julian hauled the plastic bin labeled 'LIGHTS - DO NOT TANGLE' from the hallway. He had written that label last January. Past-Julian was an optimist. Past-Julian was a liar.

He popped the lid. Inside sat a single, dense, malevolent sphere of green wire and glass bulbs. It looked like a snake orgy frozen in time.

"I hate this," Julian said. "I hate this part the most."

Sam sat on the sofa, picking up a magazine. "You packed them."

"I packed them carefully! I wound them around a piece of cardboard!"

"I don't see any cardboard, Julian."

He plunged his hands into the mass. It was cold and stiff. The plastic wire had hardened over the year in the attic. He found an end—the male plug—and pulled. The ball tightened. He pulled a different loop. The ball laughed at him.

He sat cross-legged on the floor, the sphere in his lap. It was a puzzle designed to break the human spirit. He began to thread the plug through a loop. Then back through another. Over. Under. Through.

Ten minutes passed. The only sound was the wind rattling the window pane and the soft *click-clack* of plastic bulbs hitting each other.

"Want music?" Sam asked.

"No. I need focus."

He freed a two-foot section. A victory. He pulled again, and the entire mass snagged on a single, rogue bulb that had hooked itself around three different wires. He yanked it. Bad idea. He heard a tiny *crunch*.

"Don't break them," Sam said, not looking up.

"I didn't."

He examined the bulb. The glass was intact, but the filament looked suspicious. He’d worry about that later. He kept weaving. His fingers hurt. The tips were numb from prying stiff wires apart. This was the ritual. Every year, you pay for the light with pain.

Finally, the snake uncoiled. A twenty-foot strand of green wire lay defeated on the rug. Julian stood up, triumphant.

"Plug it in first," Sam said. "Before you put it on the tree."

"It works. I checked them last year."

"Check them now."

Julian sighed. He walked to the outlet. He plugged it in.

Darkness.

Not a single flicker. The entire strand was dead.

He stared at the outlet. He wiggled the plug. Nothing. The silence in the room was heavy, judgmental.

"told you," Sam whispered. She didn't even say it loud. She just breathed it into the universe.

"It’s a fuse," Julian said, his voice rising. "It’s just a fuse. I have spares."

He scrambled back to the bin. He dumped it out. Spare bulbs, red and gold. A broken candy cane. Dust bunnies. No fuses. The little plastic baggie that came with the box was gone. Lost in the move three years ago, or thrown out by accident.

"I have to harvest one," he said. He looked at the second strand of lights, the one still in a ball. "I have to cannibalize the other strand."

"Julian, just go to the store."

"No! I am not going to the store for a fuse in this rain. I can fix this."

He sat back down with the second ball of lights. He attacked it with renewed, frantic energy. He needed its heart. He needed the tiny glass cylinder inside the plug. He clawed at the wires. He used his teeth to pry a loop loose, tasting the bitter, chemical flavour of PVC.

Twenty minutes later, he had the fuse. He popped the little door on the dead strand's plug using the tip of a steak knife. He swapped them. His hands were shaking slightly—caffeine and rage.

He plugged it in.

Light. Glorious, warm white incandescent light.

"Yes!" he shouted, throwing his hands up.

Sam clapped slowly. "Good job. Now put them on the tree."

Julian approached the tree. He started at the bottom. He walked around. He ducked under branches. He got slapped in the face by needles. He passed the strand to his other hand behind the trunk. It was a dance. A clumsy, sticky waltz. Around and around. The wire snagged. He tugged. The tree wobbled in its stand.

"Careful!" Sam barked.

"I got it, I got it."

He reached the top. He had exactly four inches of wire left. Perfect. He stepped back.

"There are huge gaps," Sam said.

"Where?"

"There. And there. It looks like a spiral. You can see the line."

"It *is* a spiral, Sam. That’s the geometry of the situation."

"Push it in deeper. Towards the trunk. It needs depth."

Julian groaned. He shoved his hands into the prickly interior of the tree, pushing the wires back. Sap glued the hairs on his arms together. He adjusted. He tweaked. He stepped back again.

The tree glowed. It wasn't perfect. The lights were bunched a bit on the left, and there was a dark patch near the bottom right, but it was lit. The warm glow changed the room. It softened the edges of the furniture, made the rain against the window feel cozy instead of hostile. The smell of the pine started to warm up, filling the air.

"Okay," Sam said softly. "That’s better."

The Ghosts in the Tissue Paper

Scene four was the ornaments. This was the minefield.

Sam opened the first box. She unwrapped a glass sphere, delicate and silver, wrapped in tissue paper that was so old it was yellow and brittle. The sound of the crinkling paper was loud in the quiet room.

"My grandmother's," she said, handing it to him.

Julian took it with two fingers. "High branch?"

"High branch. Deep inside. Where the cat can't reach."

He placed it carefully. Then came the wooden soldier. The felt reindeer with one eye missing. The weird geometric shape Julian had made in shop class when he was twelve, which looked less like a star and more like a shrapnel victim.

"Why do we keep this?" he asked, holding the wooden disaster.

"Because you made it," Sam said. She was unwrapping something else. She stopped.

Julian looked over. She was holding a blue bauble. Cheap plastic. Scratched.

"What's that one?" he asked.

"From our first apartment," she said. "The basement suite. With the mold."

Julian laughed. A short, sharp sound. "God. That place. The radiator clanking all night."

"We bought this at the dollar store. We couldn't afford anything else."

She held it for a second longer than necessary, her thumb rubbing the scratch on the side. Julian watched her. He felt a sudden, weird ache in his chest. Not pain, exactly. Just... gravity. The weight of the years stacking up. That apartment felt like ten minutes ago, but it was eight years. They were different people then. They drank cheap wine and slept on a mattress on the floor and thought they were invincible.

Now they had a mortgage, back pain, and a tree stand that cost forty dollars. They were tired. He could see it in the way Sam sat, her shoulders slumped slightly, the harsh overhead light catching the few grey hairs she was constantly trying to hide.

She looked up and caught him staring.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing," Julian said. "Put it front and centre."

"It's ugly."

"It's history. Put it up."

She smiled, a small, tired, genuine smile, and hung the blue plastic ball on a prominent branch.

They worked in silence for a while. The rhythm took over. Unwrap, assess, hang. Step back. Adjust. It was efficient. Minimalist communication. "Too close to the red one." "Got it." "Branch is sagging." "Move it up."

The tree filled out. The gaps in the branches were hidden by glitter and glass. The crooked lean became less noticeable, or maybe they just got used to it. The chaos of the room—the boxes, the discarded paper, the pliers on the floor—started to fade into the background. All that mattered was the tree.

Julian picked up the final piece. The topper. A star. It wasn't fancy. Just gold plastic with a coil at the bottom.

"Do the honours?" Sam asked.

"I need the chair."

He dragged the dining chair over. He stepped up. The ceiling felt close. The air was warmer up here. He reached for the tip of the tree. The leader branch was too long; it flopped over under the weight of the star.

"It’s floppy," he said.

"Fold it over," Sam instructed.

He bent the top branch in half, doubling its thickness. He jammed the coil onto the greenery. It sat there. Slightly askew. Looking down at them like a drunk monarch.

Julian stepped down. He kicked the empty boxes aside. He walked to the wall switch.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Ready," Sam said.

He killed the overhead lights.

The room plunged into darkness, and then, instantly, was reclaimed by the tree. The warm white lights glowed through the green needles, reflecting off the glass ornaments, casting long, dancing shadows on the walls. The silver balls picked up the light and threw it back. The blue plastic bulb from the basement apartment shone just as brightly as the antique glass.

It was beautiful. It was messy, and the tree was definitely leaning towards the window, and there was sap on the carpet that Julian would have to scrub out later with rubbing alcohol, but it was beautiful.

The wind outside hammered against the glass, rain lashing the pane, but inside, in the amber glow, it was still.

Sam walked over to him. She leaned her head on his shoulder. He put his arm around her. His flannel shirt was damp and sticky, but she didn't seem to mind.

"We did it," she said.

"We survived," he corrected.

"It looks good."

"It looks..." Julian searched for the word. He wanted to say 'perfect', but that was a lie. He wanted to say 'finished', but that was too sterile. "It looks like us."

Sam laughed softly. "A bit crooked?"

"And held together by friction and stubbornness."

They stood there for a long time, watching the lights blink—not the seizure-inducing flash, but the slow, gentle fade he had set on the controller box. The room smelled of pine and dust and rain. Julian felt the tension in his shoulders finally unspool. The headache behind his eyes receded.

This was the coming of age, he realized. It wasn't the big moments. It wasn't the graduations or the promotions. It was this. It was the work. It was the sweating and the swearing and the fighting with inanimate objects to build a small, warm space in a cold, dark world. It was knowing the magic wasn't in the tree; the magic was that they kept doing it, year after year, despite knowing how hard it was.

"I'm starving," Sam said, breaking the silence.

"Pizza?" Julian asked.

"Pizza. Extra cheese."

"Deal."

Julian squeezed her shoulder and pulled away to find his phone. He stepped over the tangle of leftover wires. He looked down at the mess on the floor—the discarded twist ties, the broken bits of pine, the tools of the trade. He’d clean it up tomorrow. Tonight, they would sit in the glow and eat grease and pretend the world wasn't howling outside.

He picked up the extension cord that led to the wall. He frowned. It was pulled taut. Like a guitar string. Just hovering an inch off the floor.

"Hey, Sam?" he said.

"Yeah?"

"Don't walk near the..."