The tree was hideous, really. Its mossy body slumped wearily to one side. Frail branches reached outward, grasping ever-thinning clumps of pine needles. In the summer months I’d part my vinyl blinds and stare through the gap at the thing, wondering why my neighbor seemed to insist on keeping it in front of his house. Come December, however, he would drag out a box of lights, tinsel, and such from his brown garage. His old, time-worn frame almost resembled that of the tree itself. Carefully, he would dress up the pine in all sorts of festive colors and shiny trinkets. When he finished, he would step back, smiling, and admire his work.

The tree didn’t look so bad that way. Sometimes I’d drag my recycling out to the curb and see other neighbors from our cul-de-sac walk past in big coats, stop, and smile at the tree. It came to be a constant on our street. Every year, the old man would stagger out and decorate it, and every year, my neighbors and I would share an unspoken appreciation for it.

Summer would return, and with it, my disdain for the tree. Each Christmas, however, my loathing would deplete slightly. Every year, little by little, I would come to appreciate that when the old man put in the effort, the tree didn’t look so hideous.

I don’t know what happened to that old man. A few summers ago, someone I never bothered to meet moved into that house on a Tuesday, wrenched the ugly tree out, and left it by the side of the road next to their trash can.