There’s a Christmas tree in the foyer of the big square building where I go to work. It’s been there since last Monday, I think. I don’t remember exactly, just that it was there some morning. Bang, it popped up from nowhere and seemingly out of the blue, but somebody must have cut it down in the woods, and somebody else must have brought it into the city and someone else must have bought it and put it up and decorated it. And it was certainly done by order and for account of somebody. The tree stands there and is still, and there are lots of bright red and silver baubles hanging from its branches and little green birds sitting on it. There are tiny electric lights, too, hundreds of them wrapped around the Christmas tree.
I don’t know about all the other people who work in the building, but I guess most of us walk right by that tree, lost in thoughts, and we might look up and think, oh, a Christmas tree, and that may be it. The decoration is certainly nothing new under the sun, nothing to attract attention. But every time I cross that empty, sad and useless foyer and its cold marble floor, every time I notice a whiff of fir, and I catch myself lingering for a split-second, and I sniff. It’s a lovely, lovely smell.