The Real Meaning

Starsky

For a moment there, I was almost worried.  What if he got me a real gift, then where would I be?

Because I gave him that ant farm I’ve wanted since I was ten.

But nope.  He got me a tree.

A tree.

He thinks he’s such a wise guy,  bustin’ a gut.

Never mind.  He stops laughing when I tell him I want to see my tree.  Now.

He drags his heels all the way to the park, haulin’ so much guilt I want to ask if he’s been talking to my Jewish mama.

It takes us awhile to find it.  Mainly because we’re looking for a tree and it ain’t a tree.

It’s a stick.

Leafless, skinny, sorriest thing you ever saw. 

I say, “I love it.”

You’d think I just hit him in the head with a two by four.  “Huh?”

“It reminds me of you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Some detective, huh?

I figure, smart guy like him, he’ll work it out for himself.  Because he’s not the only one who’s been transplanted from somewhere else.  Who’s put his roots down in this town.

And now I’m going to go play with his ant farm.

Merry Christmas!