This evening the Christmas tree fell down. We think the dog may have been a culprit.

"Never before in all of my 43 years has this happened to me," I tell my three children, hopeful one of them will confess with,

"Sorry, Mom, it was my fault."

I mean, trees don't just fall across the living room floor. They don't suddenly have a will of their own and decide no more looking festive and then topple over.

My children are eager to help me lift the tree back up to its corner of the living room, wipe the spilled water that was in the tree pot, sweep up the broken ornaments and massive pine needles and even tear off the wet paper from presents they carefully wrapped yesterday. They wonder who could have done this.

"Trees don't just fall down on their own, do they, Mom?"

I am so grateful that none of the Daniel ornaments broke. As I wipe up the puddle of water that is slowly being absorbed by the carpet, I wonder. I ask myself what is the meaning? All I can come up with, for some reason, strange to me, is of my own envy.

I used to be envious. At support groups, others told me of all done for them when their child died. It was like a contest of outdoing one another.

"My friends donated a statue at the Civic Center in memory of my son."

"Oh, yeah? Well, my friends donated the Civic Center." Competition?

We had this done for us. And that. Parents want to feel their child was so loved and is missed by others. In their intense pain, they want to believe that enough was done in her memory.

But what it all boils down to years later is that when the tree falls, we are all hopeful that the ornaments in memory of our child and especially the ones that he made, stay intact, regardless of how much was contributed to his scholarship fund or raised for cancer research or said over the death of our child by others.

My three kids hear me say loud and clear, "It is good that none of Daniel's ornaments in his memory or made by him were damaged." In a smaller voice they hear me add, "And it is good that none of the ornaments you all made were broken."

My eldest understands. "Who cares about what we made?"

She holds a point. She is alive. She can create another ornament.

Daniel cannot.

Under the Expanded Sky

Educating Merna

Crying With My Ancestors

Opening Grief as a Gift

Living Life from the Graveyard

Surviving the Tinsel

Trees of the Ice Storm

Is There Laughter After Death?

Whatever Happened to the Old?

Out of My Comfort Zone

I Am Not Cheese

As The Sixth Year Approaches

The Dirty Green Van

Judging Pain?

Grief Meets the Answering Machine

Closets, Revisited

Unwinding with a Pen

There is Nothing Wrong with You!

Scared to Death of Dying and Denying Grief

Baking Bereavement Bread

For the Love of Mothers

Bereaved Eyes

A Wealthy Life

The Power of Photographs

Fragrance of Marigolds

I spend about thirty minutes rearranging the twisted strings of colorful lights and think, "I never dreamed I'd have to decorate this tree twice." My mood softens as I finger the photo of Daniel encased in a plastic snowflake. He was four when this picture was taken in preschool. He is smiling and I take my time smiling back at him.

The Christmas tree fell over. We don't know why. We blame the beagle.

But we don't really know.

We do know that the ornaments hung in memory make our tree the most special to us. Hanging those ornaments brings our loved one closer. He may not be here with the living on earth, but he still shines on our tree and in our priceless memories.