I Shouldn’t Forget My Heart
We finally got a Christmas tree this year. A small, delicate one that looks real enough I can almost pretend into existence the spicy tang of true pine needles.
Though it doesn’t hold much more than a dozen ornaments — including the usual array of snowflake, stars, and angels — many of them hold special meaning to me. There is a trio of pressed tin angels acquired while in Norway, a small grey elephant from Thailand, a Sophie the giraffe ornament gifted by a dear friend as memento of Sweet Baby’s first Christmas, and a felted koala wrapped in a red winter scarf, which symbolises celebrating this winter holiday in Australia more than anything else.
And I shouldn’t forget my heart. From one of the bottom branches of the tree hangs a plump red heart, embellished with fine, hand-sewn embroidery. I bought it, along with half a dozen others, from a shop in Ulan Bator. Not quite a year after I returned from Mongolia, Liam and I strung the hearts along our reception table as part of our wedding decor. Now, nearly two years later, our small son helps to hang one of them on the Christmas tree.
No, I can not forget my heart.