When the Tree Comes Down: A Tradition Built from Love and Loss

Photo by Julien-Pier Belanger on Unsplash

Well, it’s that time again — the moment when the lights go dark, and the tree comes down. That’s the tricky thing about traditions: they feel timeless and comforting, right until life changes and asks us to let go. The hardest part isn’t ending the tradition — it’s realizing the reason for it has changed.

When my son Richie died in 2007, I couldn’t imagine putting up a Christmas tree. It felt wrong, almost cruel. But my two younger children gently insisted. They said we should do it for Richie. So we did. We chose a tree that felt just right for Richie — tall and slender, just like him, as if even in that small way he was still standing with us. And we gathered every photo we could find — snapshots of his smile, his life — and tucked them into tiny 2x3 frames. Some we placed inside clear glass globes, and we hung them all on the tree. From that year on, it wasn’t just a Christmas tree anymore. It became Richie’s tree.

Taking it down was another story altogether. I couldn’t bring myself to do it. The tree stayed right where it was until June 2008. And when I finally decided it was time, nothing about it felt easier. That day is still etched in my memory. My husband was at work, my daughter was working too, and my youngest son was heading out with a friend. As I began carefully wrapping the ornaments, the tears came — quietly, steadily. No sobs. Just tears slipping down my face, one after another.

As my son was getting ready to leave, he stopped and asked, “Are you okay?” I told him yes, of course. But he knew better. He didn’t leave the house that day. Neither did his friend. They stayed close, hanging around, keeping me company without saying a word. Months later, his friend told me the truth: they never went out because my son didn’t want to leave me alone. That small act of love says everything about the young man my husband and I raised.

When my mom learned how hard it had been, she promised me something. The next year, she said, she’d help me take the tree down. And just like that, a new tradition was born. The “Take the Tree Down Party” began in Christmas 2008 — dinner, wine, music, laughter woven gently into grief. Year after year, we did it together.

As time passed, Mom could do less. By 2024, as she battled cancer, her role changed, but her presence never did. I had kept every ornament box all those years, and she would sit on the sofa beside the tree while I handed her each ornament. She’d carefully place them back where they belonged, one by one. The last time she helped me was January 11, 2025. There was no party that year — just the two of us, together.

Now, as I sit beside the tree and think about the 17 years we spent taking it down, side by side, it all settles heavily in my heart. Every ornament holds a story. Some Mom knew by heart; others she’d ask me to tell again. This year, I’ll take the tree down on my own, holding those memories close, and wondering what new tradition might quietly begin.