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“What? That’s crazy.”

“Sometimes we put marshmallows on the sweet potato casserole if we’re feeling really wild.”

“Absolutely bonkers.”

We walk around the bend, and he adds, “It’s fun, though. The way your family does things. It’s little traditions like this that keep family together. Your nana is a clever woman.”

“I do like it. And yes. It does seem awfully more effective than my old roommate’s family’s means of gathering together.”

“Which was?”

“Oh, the American standard. Guilt trips. Spam text messaging.”

“Sure.”

We move round the bend to another hillside of trees utterly unobscured by humans or structures. The field is full of green giants. Rows and rows of Christmas trees that would make the Rockefeller Plaza jealous.

He pauses.

The sun is a golden ball right above the tops of the trees now, the sunlight skipping over the snow and casting a glittering, golden glow. Someone could film a movie about an Alaskan couple in total wilderness here, and there would be no chance of anyone pointing at the screen and crying out, Look! There’s a tiny barn right there! The world is pure and undisturbed. Not even a single footprint in the snow as far as the eye can see.

I stop too.

“It’s beautiful,” he says.

And I smile. “I never appreciated it as a kid,” I say. “My mom and dad would always do stuff like this. Actually, probably right around here in fact. And I’d be like ‘It’s a tree. And now it’s a cluster of trees.’ Funny how you don’t know what you have until it’s gone.”

He nods a little wistfully.

“Perhaps you just had to leave and go through the hard thing so you could return and appreciate it fully.”

There’s something in that sentence. Something I want to take home and remember later.

After a quiet venture into the field, we find a tree. “Oh, I love her,” I say, grabbing hold of his arm to stop him.

We both look up. “Her?” he says, raising a brow.

“Her.”

“I don’t know how I feel about cutting down a ‘her.’”

“Well, it’s not a him. Look at the branches. They’re quite feminine.”

“Which means?”

“They’re dignified. Strong. This is the kind of tree that wants to hold on to a thousand ornaments—which, believe me, we have—with quiet poise, upholding each little handmade snowflake or carved memory for the family to enjoy. I love the feminine trees.”

“And forgive me. Unscholarly as I am, you’re going to have to elaborate. Because the male trees are . . .”

“Oh, you know.” I wave a hand dismissively. “Just big brutes you throw up in your living room. All trunk, no character.”

James purses his lips, bemused. “I had no idea.”

“Well, now you do.”

“This is very serious work.”

“A hundred people are going to be judging us. It’s serious, James.”