Needled
EVEN as Steve was pulling out of the driveway to take his mother to the airport, Lisa was dragging the Christmas tree, wrapped in its bedsheet shroud, across the living room floor. Halfway to the door, the clothes pegs holding the sheet together pinged away and branches sprang outwards, scattering needles everywhere. She groaned, recalling Carol’s warning of a week ago.
“Oh, you bought a real tree, Lisa. I hope it’s rooted, or you’ll still be finding needles this time next year.”
“Um no, it’s not,” she’d admitted. “But it’ll be okay if I keep it watered, surely.”
“Yes, I’m sure it will. And it’s lovely,” her mother-in-law had said quickly. “Better than that tatty old tinsel thing we used to bring down from the loft every year, eh Steve.”
“I used to love that tree!” he’d laughed. “But we
