Poetry by Susan Miller
The tiny tree and its sparkly
needles never smelled of pine
or rode the roof of a family’s
SUV. It never towered and
awed from a department store
window with folds of fluffy
cotton unfurled at its feet.
It was plucked by my mother
from its perch on a sad,
overstocked shelf at CVS
next to a leftover ice-skating
Snoopy, fading blue bulbs
and depleted bags of tinsel.
Where I saw half off, my
mother saw magic: It could
be the perfect tree for Betty.
I watched her arthritic, tender
hands weave brightly colored
beads, bells and cardboard
snowflakes through the tree’s
pint-size branches. Miniature
Grinches, Drummer Boys and
Rudolphs sat elbow to elbow,
seemingly unaware of their
table-top calling in this labor
of love by an angel determined
to bring a piece of Christmas
to her decades-old friend.
Days later we would carry
our precious cargo down
a fluorescent hall crammed
with walkers, tired nurses
and blank stares of those
trapped inside their heads.
Into a corner room, the
12-by-12 universe where
a graying woman often
mumbled and shook. Betty
didn’t know us last time;
she didn’t know us then.
But her eyes blinked and
beamed, a crack of light
in the darkness. It was
the perfect tree for Betty.
Susan Miller is a journalist for USA TODAY whose off-the-grid passion is poetry. Her work has been published in Under the Bridges of America, Common Ground Review, Gemini Magazine, Months to Years, Sandy Paws, Written in Arlington, Whimsical Poet, Dillydoun Review, Goat’s Milk Magazine, The Bluebird Word, and The Raven’s Perch.
