When I was a kid in Maine, every family on Falmouth Foresides, Maine dragged their desiccated Christmas tree to the town dump. My father unloaded ours from the rear of the Ford station wagon and dumped it over the snowy bluff to join a score of orange spruce trees. My younger brother was a pyromaniac and Frunk lit a piece of paper on fire.
It floated afire into the pile of trees and the brittle needles caught blaze as if they had been sprayed with gasoline.
Whoosh.
All the adults and children gaped at the brilliant bonfire.
My brother stuck his hands in his pockets.
My father looked at him.
I almost said, “He did nothing.”, but that sentence would have been an admission of guilt, so Frunk and I stared at the fire with admiration.
It was a sight that I’ve never seen before, but in Fort Greene there are countless piles of Christmas trees.
I do have a book of matches.
If only I had the nerve.