Nobody goes into the living room now. "It's" in there, waiting, bereft, longing for attention, awaiting its inevitable demise. We loved it once, not so long ago. We adored it, fussed over it, attended to its every need, bragged about its beauty. It was confirmation of our happiness.
Now we shun it, wishing it gone. The once favored Christmas tree, the centerpiece of our gala celebration is now a pariah. Our holiday gluttony now sated, we want no more. Better if gypsies would steal away with it in the night. Needles fall in despair. Thank God trash day is Saturday.