There was once a little girl...

...who was very, very poor. Her single mother was diagnosed with an auto-immune disease which, in its early stages, rendered her unable to work. Also plagued by depression, her mother was somehow able to find her feet and move them into a small, section-8 apartment. Food stamps lined the freezer with TV dinners (ironically, since their TV was barely a TV at all), and they settled in, optimistic about the future.

Although most of the year was spent scraping by, the little girl came home from school one day to find her mother in high spirits. She was quickly bundled up and cheerily taken to the car. The girl watched through the window as the houses passed in a magical blur of light. The tiny, white speckles glittered like stars; at the sight of the candy-colored bulbs against the evening sky, the little girl held her breath. She could smell the snow in the air.

Just as the streetlights began their intrusive hum, they pulled into a tiny local produce stand and braced for the cold. Her mother's long, wavy hair had been tucked inside of her coat. Her lips were strangely bare - the fuchsia lipstick was missing, and in its place a slight curve of the mouth produced the faintest of smiles. The girl stumbled wide-eyed through the empty lot, straight towards a sad group of small evergreens, which by now had begun to turn brown on the edges.

Christmas.

Her mother beckoned her to come help. To the little girl's delight, her mother scrutinized each one; this one was too tall, this one too skinny, and this one - not enough branches. At the corner of the lot stood a pear-shaped tree, round on the bottom and slender at the top. The little girl took off her glove and felt the prickly branches on her skin. It smelled like winter, crisp and green. She felt it; this was their tree.

The money was given. The tree was tied. And, later in the night, the little girl would watch as the tree - their tree - came to life with colored lights and shiny, glass ornaments. The scratchy, floral couch melted away; her favorite rocking chair disappeared. All she could see was her mother's hands - the pretty, painted nails shining in the lights - hanging the delicate ornaments on each branch. She watched her stand back, tilt her head to the side, purse her lips, and  readjust a branch or two. The pink lights that were supposed to be red lit her cheeks. And, for a moment, all was right with the world.