It’s my 21st Christmas, and I want to cut down the tree myself.
“You’ll get dirty,” Dad says. “And what if it’s too wet to bring
into the house?” asks my mother. It rained all day. “We’ll let it
blow-dry all the way home,” Dad says. He means in the back of the
little blue truck. He doesn’t know the tree will exceed the little
blue truck’s bed. And like always at about this time of year, the
actual height of the ceiling adjusts to our wishful thinking. I
drive, and
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