Angels atop the tree 

The suffering and hardships that have befell my Aunt Stephanie over the last decade have been tremendous. In April of 2011 she lost her only child, my cousin Kyle to an overdose after he ran away from a rehab facility. Her and my uncle Kent somehow and unimaginably came out of that experience as more joyful and caring versions of themselves than before. They navigated through the loss of Kyle and ended up with a yearning to exemplify and heighten the experience of everyone around them because they had become all too familiar with the fragility of life. But in November of 2018, Uncle Kent suffered a fatal heart attack while running on a treadmill.  

And just like that, Aunt Steph had lost her entire immediate family. She was left with nothing other than the house her husband had built and walls scattered with pictures of Kyle. 

But somehow she soldiered through that loss and kept herself from spiraling into what I can only imagine as a very tempting and welcoming pit of nothingness. 

She has never let the absence of their presence create an absence of them in her own life.  

She still makes a point to go to the Jemez Mountains and cut down a Christmas tree every year just as she did when Uncle Kent and Kyle were alive. 

That’s where my father and I come in. 

My father is an excellent little brother to his big sister. 

The year after Uncle Kent passed away my father called me and said that we should go down to New Mexico and help her cut down a Christmas tree in order to make her inevitably difficult holiday season have some semblance of normalcy. 

And southwest bound and down we embarked from Colorado. 

My father and I were making a trip to New Mexico we had made together God only knows how many times. But this time there was a different feeling in the air. With every mile that put us closer to Albuquerque there was an encroaching sadness because I believe we were both anticipating the emptiness of a house without both Uncle Kent and Kyle. 

That might be why we argued about politics the entire drive. I think we would have rather butt heads than acknowledge the fact that this was going to be an emotionally exhausting weekend for the both of us. 

I love my father with all my heart and soul but Jesus Christ can we argue. Viscously and without regard. Politics is one of the only things that divides my father and I. Even on the way to help our hurting relative maintain a sense of holiday cheer, we couldn’t help but go for each other’s ideological throats. 

Debating worldviews with your parents is not only difficult, it is honestly a semantic effort. I mean, how are you going to persuade someone that used to wipe your ass? 

And we nearly ruined this weekend by indulging in the putrid nature of mixing blood and politics. 

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The next morning we woke up exceptionally early and the three of us loaded inside of Uncle Kent's F-250. I’ve loved that truck ever since he bought it. But today I had to choke down tears when I hopped into the cab. 

As we took off down the road, I was looking at the New Mexican landscape that was covered in a deep frost this late November morning. I had never seen New Mexico like this. 

New Mexico is known for a lot.  Green chiles, breathtaking desert landscapes, and Breaking Bad. What New Mexico is not generally known for is blizzards. More importantly a blizzard so intense that it made a life long Colorado Native genuinely concerned. 

It was like clockwork. Maliciously executed clockwork. As soon as we crossed over into the Jemez Mountains the snow came down thick and with veracity. We all kept talking and reminiscing in the car as if we were all ignoring the fact that the snow was piling up like unwanted bills. 

As we traveled farther into the mountains the snow obviously became far worse. I was doing my best to sheath my anxieties so that Aunt Steph wouldn’t get nervous. But once I noticed that my father was nervous behind the wheel (something I had never seen before) I basically knew we were, for a lack of better words, about to be fucked. 

And fucked we were. The truck was stuck on the side of a mountain that was a dead drop on one side and more snow on the other side and no room to turn around. To make matters even worse, we had a trailer with a side by side on the back. So, backing down this road had now become an expert level task. 

At this point, a general sense of concern was very much warranted. We had no cell reception and the snow was only showing signs of intensifying. We had wrapped one tire chain around the rear axle of Uncle Kent's truck and by the time we got it off, we had done a number on it. With a variety of blunt objects and resiliency, my father managed to pound the mangled mess back into a useful tire chain. 

By the time were finally unstuck, several hours had passed us by and a couple more feet of snow had accumulated. 

The three of us sat in the truck and collectively sighed a sigh of relief. 

The truck was quiet as the snow continued to fall and we all slowly found comfort in the trucks roaring heater. 

A few silent moments passed before Aunt Steph said, “Well, we tried. Maybe we’ll get a tree next year.” 

My father looked at me, and I looked back at him. We then realized that my father had in fact raised no bitch, and that there was no other feasible option than us leaving these woods with a Christmas tree for Aunt Steph. 

We took the side by side off of the trailer and deeper into the snow covered woods we traveled.

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“There it is! There’s the tree!” Shouted Aunt Steph. I stopped the side by side and Dad and I hopped into action. We cut that fucker down like it owed us money and strapped it to the roof. 

We finally had our tree and the smile on Aunt Steph’s face was worth the blistering cold that had taken over my hands and feet. 

We returned to the house and placed the tree in the living room. We strung the lights across the tree and for the first time that day, my father and I relaxed. 

But there was one thing left to do. 

The angel. 

No Christmas tree is complete without the angel at the tip top. 

I climbed up the ladder and I placed the angel on the highest branch. 

I looked down from the ladder and for a moment I traveled back in time. 

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I was the youngest of three siblings. I have two lovely older sisters and every Christmas we made an event out of decorating the tree together. Mom would make hot chocolate and we would hang ornaments. But the placement of the Angel was always a special honor. 

When I was four years old, my father asked me if I wanted to put the angel on the top of the tree. It was the pinnacle honor of my short existence. Of course I accepted the invitation. Dad picked me up with one hand and held the angel with the other. And up the ladder we went. We reached the top, I placed the angel on top of the tree. My father hugged me and we descended the ladder. 

That is one of those memories seared into my psyche because of its inherent wholesomeness. 

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I came back to reality from my lucid travel through time. And now I am reminded of the fragility of life and existence. 

Dad and I drove out here to make sure that we can carry the torch for Uncle Kent and Kyle. We did what we could for those that no longer can. We made sure that Aunt Steph felt love in the presence of overwhelming loneliness and confusion. 

But a part of me felt very conflicted. As we drove out here, we had the audacity to speak to one another as the lesser. Father and son pitted against one another based on the thoughts and actions of politicians that do not even know our names. 

What a despicable thing to do at any time of year. But what a truly depraved notion to have toward a loved one during a season of love and cherishing. 

I climbed down the ladder in the house of my loved ones that left us far too soon. I realized what a silly notion it is to harbor animosity towards family based on differing perceptions of the world. 

Knowing full well how temporary of an existence we all have, I cannot in good 

conscience ruin (anymore) holidays by arguing politics with the man that first helped me place an angel atop the tree. 

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If you can gain anything from this anecdotal story, please gain a better threshold for when and where to embark on political discourse with your family. 

Their time here is worth so much more than how they plan on casting ballots. 

None of that matters once they are gone. No one delivers a eulogy and remembers anyone as a conservative or liberal. We simply remember them because that is ultimately all that remains.  

In other words, fuck politics. Love your family. Give to those that need a helping hand and revel in the holiday cheer and the company that coincides with it.

Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays.