Myrna’s fir tree was dying.
She had no idea what went wrong with it. She had purchased it a little less than a year before, a happy little evergreen in a small pot. She decorated it for Christmas, dressing it up all fancy, this tiny little tree in her living room.
When Christmas was over, Myrna took everything off the tree and put it outside. It was a hardy little thing, and it seemed to enjoy the cold. I didn’t grow, but it stayed bright and green on her deck all winter.
In the spring, she had repotted it in something larger, and watched as it shot up several inches over the summer. It had a brief battle with tiny little insects – they looked like spiders, though Myrna didn’t want to examine them too closely – but they disappeared soon enough.
As the leaves on other trees turned, though, her little fir was browned with them. It started on the edges, and was moving inward. She tried watering it more, watering it less, giving it some fertilizer, everything. But nothing was working.
Now, with the first snowfall, she had to admit that her tree was dead. She could do nothing for it. Myrna emptied it in the compost, then went out to find another.