This is true based on a phone call from my father,years ago now, his first christmas alone. I wrote this yesterday afternoon. “Her Tree” I trim her tree, she will not see Perfection like hers is not to be Through tears, I try to see her dream Of how it should look Oh how I wish I'd have a book In my hand is one perfect flocked red rose She called the Christmas rose And it always held a prominent place on our tree Where is that place to be, on the tree she will not see She left me this year; I’m on my own, The reflection of lights on the tree In her eyes will not be shown She’s in my heart; I hope to make her proud And do my best on this tree she will not see Life alone now is hard and lonely She made everything special Winter and snow had a special glow I look at the lights tonight They shine not as bright As they did one short year before On this tree she will not see We were to grow old together We did in fact as I look down I see my shaky wrinkled hand That once held her own, pick up the angel To place on top of her tree she will not see
