Джей Эшер - What Light

When he joins Mom in the Bigtop, I run to the trailer and call Caleb.

“Get over here and buy a tree,” I say. “I know you have deliveries to make.”

It’s dark by the time I see Caleb pull into the parking area. Luis and I carry a big, heavy tree toward his truck.

“I hope this fits wherever you’re going,” Luis says.

Caleb hops out and runs back to lower the tailgate. “That one might be out of my price range,” he says, “even with a discount.”

“No,” I say, “because it’s free.”

“It’s a gift from her parents,” Luis says. “They’re taking a nap at the moment, so—”

“I’m right here, Luis,” I say. “I can tell him.”

Luis blushes and then heads back to the lot, where a customer waits to have her tree netted. Caleb, meanwhile, looks confused.

“My dad and I had a talk,” I say.

“And?”

“And they trust me,” I tell him. “They also love what you do with their trees, so they want to donate this one to the cause.”

He looks toward the trailer and a faint smile appears. “I guess when we get back you can let them know whether their donation fit.”

After we deliver the tree, which barely fits—and the five-year-old freaks with excitement—Caleb drives us to Cardinals Peak. He parks in front of the metal gate and unlocks his door.

“Wait here and I’ll open it up,” he says. “We can drive to the top and, if you don’t mind, I’d love to finally see your trees.”

“Then turn off the engine,” I say. “We’re hiking up.”

He leans forward to look up the hill.

“What, are you afraid of a little night hike?” I tease. “I’m sure you have a flashlight, right? Please don’t tell me you drive a truck but don’t have a flashlight!”

“Yes,” he says, “in fact, I do have one of those.”

“Perfect.”

He backs his truck onto a grass-and-dirt patch on the side of the street and grabs a flashlight from the glove box. “There’s only one,” he says. “I hope you’re okay standing close.”

“Oh, if we must,” I say.

He hops out of the truck, walks over to my side, and opens the door. We both zip up our jackets while looking at the tall silhouette of Cardinals Peak.

“I love coming out here,” I say. “Every time I hike up this hill, I think… I get this feeling like… that my trees are a deep personal metaphor.”

“Wow,” Caleb says. “That might be the most profound thing I’ve heard you say yet.”

“Oh, shut it,” I say. “Give me that flashlight.”

He hands me the light but keeps on going. “Seriously. Do you mind if I use that at school? My English teacher will love it.”

I nudge him with my shoulder. “Hey, I was raised on a Christmas tree farm. I’m allowed to get sentimental about it even if I can’t express myself.”

I love how Caleb and I can tease each other and it feels like no big deal. The hard things are still there—we can’t avoid a day on the calendar—but we have found a way to appreciate each other right now.

It’s colder tonight than when Heather and I came here on Thanksgiving. Caleb and I don’t say much on the way up; we simply enjoy the coolness in the air and the warmth of our touch. Before the final turn of the hill, I lead him off the road with the flashlight and into knee-high brush. Without complaint, he follows me out several yards.

The crescent moon casts deep shadows on this side of the hill. Where the brush clears, I slowly move the flashlight across my trees, capturing one or two at a time within the narrow beam.

Caleb steps beside me and puts an arm around my shoulders, gently bringing our bodies together. When I look at him, he’s looking out at the trees. He lets go of me and walks into my little farm, looking so happy as he glances between them and me.

“They’re beautiful,” he says. He leans close and breathes in one of the trees. “Just like Christmas.”

“And they look like Christmas because Heather hikes up every summer to shear them,” I say.

“They don’t grow wild like this?”

“Not all of them,” I say. “Dad likes to tell people we all need a little help getting in the spirit.”

“Your family likes metaphors,” Caleb says. He walks behind me and wraps me in a hug, letting his chin rest on my shoulder.

We quietly look at the trees together for several minutes.

“I love them,” he tells me. “They’re your little tree family.”

I lean to the side and look him in the eyes. “Now who’s being sentimental?”

“Have you ever thought of decorating them?” he asks.

“Heather and I did that once—in the most eco-friendly way possible, of course. We used pinecones and berries and flowers, plus some stars we bought made of birdseed and honey.”

“You brought gifts for the birdies?” he says. “Very cute.”

We climb back through the brush, and I turn around to admire my trees once more—probably the last time I’ll see them before I leave. I hold Caleb’s hand, not knowing how many more chances I’ll get to do this in my life. He points away, toward my family’s tree lot. From up here it looks like a small, softly lit rectangle. The lampposts and snowflakes that link between the trees brighten their deep green. There’s the Bigtop and the silver trailer. I can see bodies move between the trees, a mix of customers, workers, and maybe Mom and Dad. Caleb slides behind me again and wraps me in his arms.

This is home , I think. Down there… and right here.

He runs his hand down my arm that holds the flashlight, and then moves the beam of light slowly across my trees. “I’m counting five,” he says. “I thought you said there were six.”

My heart stops. I move the flashlight back across my trees. “One, two…” My heart shatters when I stop at five. I run back through the brush, sweeping the beam rapidly back and forth along the ground ahead of me. “It’s the first one! The big one.”

Caleb walks toward me through brush. Before he reaches me, he knocks his foot against something solid. I shine the light at his feet and then clasp a hand over my mouth. I kneel onto the soil beside the stump, which is all that remains of my oldest tree. At the top of the cut are small beads of dried sap.

Caleb kneels beside me. He takes the flashlight from me and holds both of my hands. “Someone fell in love with it,” he says. “It’s probably in their home now, all decorated and beautiful. It’s like a gift that—”

“It was a gift for me to give,” I say. “Not for someone to take.”

He eases me to my feet and I rest my cheek against his shoulder. After several minutes like this, we begin our walk back down the road. We walk slowly and say nothing. He gently guides me around any holes and rocks.

Then he stops, peering a few feet off the side of the road. I follow his gaze as he steps toward it. The flashlight illuminates the dark green of my tree, tossed on its side and left drying in the brush.

“They just left it here?” I say.

“I guess your tree put up a fight.”

I slump down and don’t bother holding back my tears. “I hate whoever did this!”

Caleb moves next to me and rests a hand on my back. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t tell me it’ll be all right or judge me for how worked up I am over a tree. He simply understands.

Eventually, I get up. He brushes the tears from my face and looks me in the eyes. He still doesn’t speak, but I know he’s with me.

“I wish I could explain why I’m acting like this,” I say, but he closes his eyes and then I close mine, and I know I don’t need to.