Джей Эшер: What Light

“Hardly,” she says. “But last year it took us forever to clear the weeds after dark, so—”

“Either way, I’m going to pretend you enjoyed yourself,” I say. “And whatever the reason, you would not have done it unless you were an awesome friend. So thank you.”

Heather politely nods and then hands me the trowel.

I look around until I find the perfect spot. A new tree, I believe, should always get the best view of what’s happening below. After I kneel into the dirt, which is soft thanks to Heather, I begin digging a hole large enough to contain the roots.

The last two years we made the trek, we took turns carrying the tree. Before that we wheeled it up here in Heather’s red wagon. It has become like my own little tree farm, a way to keep a part of me here after my family heads back north.

I wonder again if, next year, I’ll have the chance to cut down the oldest tree.

This season was supposed to be perfect, not bogged down with what-ifs. They’re all around me, though, in everything I do. I don’t know how to fully enjoy any of these moments without wondering if it’s the last.

I untie the twine that holds the burlap around the roots. When I peel the fabric away, the roots stay mostly in place, still covered in soil from back home.

“I’m going to miss these hikes,” Heather says.

I set the tree into the hole and spread out some of the roots with my fingers.

Heather kneels beside me and helps me scoop dirt back into the hole. “At least we have one more year,” she says.

Unable to look at her, I sprinkle another handful of soil around the base of the tree. I clap the dirt from my hands and then sit on the ground. Pulling my knees to my chest, I look down the dark hill to the city lights. Out there Heather has lived her entire life. Though I may stay here only a short while each year, I feel like I’ve grown up here, too. I exhale a deep breath.

“What’s the matter?” Heather asks.

I look up at her. “There may not be another year.”

She looks at me with a furrowed brow but doesn’t speak.

“They won’t say it to me,” I tell her, “but I’ve overheard my parents discussing this for a while. They might not be able to justify coming down here another season.”

Now Heather looks out at the town.

From this high up, when the season gets under way and all the lights go on, it’s easy to spot our Christmas tree lot. Starting tomorrow, a rectangle of white lights will surround our trees. But tonight, the place where I live is a dark patch near a long street with headlights driving past.

“This year will tell us for sure,” I say. “I know my parents want to be here as much as I do. Rachel and Elizabeth, on the other hand, love the idea of me staying in Oregon for Christmas.”

Heather sits down on the dirt beside me. “You’re one of my best friends, Sierra. And I know Rachel and Elizabeth feel the same way, so I can’t blame them—but they get you the whole rest of the year. I can’t imagine you and your family not being a part of my holidays.”

I really don’t want to miss my last full season with Heather, either. It’s something we’ve known was coming from the beginning. We’ve talked about senior year with such apprehensive anticipation.

“I feel the same way,” I tell her. “I mean, I am curious about what the holidays would be like back home—not dealing with school online and getting to do Decemberish things in my hometown for once.”

Heather looks up at the stars for a long time.

“But I would miss you,” I say, “and all of this way too much.”

I see her smile. “Maybe I could come up there for a few days, visit you over the break for once.”

I lean my head against her shoulder and look out. Not up at the stars or down at the town, but away.

Heather leans her head against mine. “Let’s not worry about it right now,” she says, and neither of us say anything more for several minutes.

Eventually, I turn back to the smallest tree. I pat the soil around it and slide some more dirt toward its thin trunk. “Let’s make this year extra special no matter what,” I say.

Heather stands up and looks out at the town. I take her hand and she helps me up. I stand beside her, not letting go.

“What would be amazing,” she says, “is if we put lights on these trees so they could be seen by everyone down there.”

It’s a beautiful thought, a way to share our friendship with everyone. I could open the curtains over my bed and look up at them every night to fall asleep.

“But I checked on the hike up,” she says. “This mountain doesn’t have a single electrical outlet.”

I laugh. “The nature in this town is so behind the times.”

With my eyes still closed, I hear Mom and Dad shut the door as they leave the trailer. I roll onto my back and take a deep breath. A few extra moments are all I want. Once I get out of bed, the days will tumble forward like dominoes.

On opening day, Mom always wakes up ready to go. I’m much more like Dad, and I can hear his heavy boots on the dirt outside, shuffling toward the Bigtop. Once there, he’ll plug in a large silver urn of coffee and one of hot water, and then arrange the packets of tea and powdered chocolate that we put out for customers. The first hot drops of coffee will be poured into his thermos, though.

I pull the tube-shaped pillow from under my head and hug it against my chest. After Heather’s mom competes in the ugly Christmas sweater contest, which she’s won twice in the past six years, she cuts off the sleeves and makes them into bolster pillows. She sews up the cuff end, stuffs the sleeve with cotton, and then sews up the other end. She keeps one sleeve for her family and the other one goes to me.

I hold the one I got last night at arm’s length above me. It’s a mossy green fabric with a dark blue rectangle where the elbow was. Within that rectangle, snowflakes fall around a flying purple-nosed reindeer.

I cuddle the pillow tight and close my eyes again. Outside, I hear someone moving toward the trailer.

“Is Sierra around?” Andrew asks.

“Not right now,” Dad says.

“Oh, okay,” Andrew says. “I figured we could work together and get things done faster.”

I squeeze the pillow even tighter. I do not need Andrew waiting outside for me.

“I believe she’s still sleeping,” Dad says. “But if you need something to do by yourself, double-check the outhouses for hand sanitizer.”

That’s my dad!

I stand outside the Bigtop, still not fully awake but ready to welcome our first customers of the year. A father and his daughter, who’s maybe seven years old, step out of their car. Already scanning the trees, he places a gentle hand on her head.

“I always love this smell,” the father says.

The girl takes a step forward, her eyes full of sweet innocence. “It smells like Christmas!”

It smells like Christmas. This is what so many people say when they first arrive, as if the words were waiting to be spoken the entire drive over.

Dad appears from between two noble firs on his way to the Bigtop, probably hoping for more coffee. First, he greets the family and tells them to let any of us know if we can help. Andrew, in a tattered Bulldogs baseball cap, walks by with a watering hose draped over his shoulder. He tells the family he’ll be happy to carry a tree to their car when they’re ready. He doesn’t even glance in at me—thanks to Dad—and I bite down on a grin.

“Is your cash drawer ready?” Dad asks, refilling his thermos.

I walk behind the checkout counter, which has been draped in shiny red garland and fresh holly. “Just waiting to see what the first sell will be.”