It was one of the moments that brought my brother and I back together after adolescent turmoil and trouble: our trip to pick up the family Christmas tree. In high school we went our own ways, about as far apart as two brothers could go, but by the time I was spending most of my year at Brandeis, we had grown up a little and were ready to become friends. On an unplanned whim, we both volunteered to go pick up the tree in the mid-to-late 90’s. I still remember the drive, on a bright but wildly windy day, and the twins still ask me to tell the story of how the tree fell off the car before we even got home.
That story came up again, after we picked out the tree (and by we I mean Noah and Emi) and had secured a table by the fire at our old stomping ground the Cock & Bull.
On the ride over, we passed the frozen pond that I drove by on all my oboe lessons. The kids studied their spelling words, and my brother and I searched for Christmas music on the radio.
It was a warm tradition still intact, and I asked the twins to tell us some of their stories. At seven they claimed they didn’t have any, but we all recalled the night Emi went backwards in her chair when we picked up a tree a few years ago. They will have more, much more, to tell one day. They have only just begun.
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