Trimming the tree was a melancholy affair this year, I'm afraid. Doesn't seem to be much reason beyond "we always do it." My Aunt Clarice called this evening. She didn't do much today, either. She was remembering times past when we would all get together. I thought about those times, too. Where are the snows of yesteryear? asked Francois Villon, but he had no answer.
The tree looks nice. Here's hoping that Cuthbert's outgrown his desire to climb it.