Much Ado about NOTHING

There's something sad about a January Xmas tree. We haven't taken ours down yet, but we've stopped bothering to turn its lights on. It stands in the corner, looking forlorn and pointless and accusatory: "Why am I still here?" The little angels and Santas and sparkly festoonings seem slightly stale. It's like the morning-after mess after a big party: evidence of a good time, but the decorations and crockery that seemed glamorous in the starry dark now appear soiled and sordid in the harsh light of the sun. Trimming the tree is a celebration; untrimming it is just work: baubles back in their boxes; the fake evergreen taken apart, limb by limb. But when it's done, the room feels renewed, exorcised, as if we've finally let go of the old year and found the courage to face the new. Time we got on that, O tannenbaum.