The strings of Christmas lights lay tangled at my feet. I struggle to straighten them out. Each string has 100 bulbs set in a twisted green wire. I wonder if they will light as I plug them into the wall socket. Half the strand twinkles; half the strand lay dark and bleak. I pull the plug out of the wall and toss the strand to the side. I select another strand and repeat the process. This time, all the tiny lights twinkle back at me. Ah, a good strand. I begin at the bottom of the tree, carefully placing the flexible wire within the branches and in between the boughs. The lights look so beautiful.

      I think of my mother.

      “Debbie, the tree is not straight. Can you get under there and move it to the right?”

      I scoot under the lowest boughs. The pine needles poke through my shirt and prick my skin. I brush the needles out of my hair. The base is heavy and the screws large. I twist the screw left of the truck.

      “Is that better?” I say, my voice muffled as I talk into the carpet.

      “A little more,” she says.

      “Now? Is that enough?”

      “It’s better, but I think it’s still not straight.”

      I sigh. Every year this huge tree is never straight. Every year I crawl under the branches and fuss with the screws trying to straighten a tree that will never be perfectly straight.

      “Come out and take a look. Isn’t it still leaning? Look. Over here.”

      I push my way out from under the tree, thankful it’s still standing and not over on its side. I stick my butt up and get on my knees. She’s right the tree is still leaning.

      “I think it’s okay,” I say, hoping she will not ask me to go back under.

      “No, I don’t think so. Come here and look. See.”

      I know she is right.

      I drop to my belly and wiggle back toward the trunk. “Just tell me which way and I’ll try to straighten it.”

      She walks over to the tree and inserts her slender hand. Grabbing the trunk and moves it in the direction, she thinks will make is straight. I turn the screws until the base is level and the tree straight.

      “Perfect,” she says and smiles at me.

      I feel warm inside. She has a beautiful smile. I pick up the first strand of lights and plug it into the wall socket. Half the lights twinkle; the other half does not.

      “I swear these lights are lucky to last a season!” she quips. “Hand them to me.”

      I do and pick up another strand. These all twinkle and I begin to lace them up the tree starting at the bottom. The next strand is added and the pattern continues until I reach the top. I tuck the end of the strand in the middle of the boughs so no end shows.

      She smiles and hands me the garland. Gold boa-like garland is strategically placed on the limbs as not to cover the colored twinkling lights.

      “I’m dreaming of a White Christmas” plays in the background and mom hums along with Bing Crosby. She looks happy and so am I. My sister, Jo, comes into the room.

      “I want to help,” she announces.

      “Grab that box over there and you can help put the ornaments on the tree.”

      I sit back on the rug with my arms around my knees. The twinkling lights glow. Jo gingerly pulls a glass ornament from the box, puts a hook on it and places it in the middle of the tree. She goes back to the box and continues this ritual until a cluster of ornaments have been hung in the middle of the tree. She tires of the work and starts to rummage through other boxes of decorations.