The secret of my Christmas tree is simple. Each branch holds a special memory. The ornaments that fill the branches range from things I made as a child to things that were made by my children. The memories are simple and sweet and mine.

My children have started to explore and retell the stories behind the ornaments. Late last night, I walked into the room to catch my son explaining to his sister that this particular ornament was one that I had given to their father.

“See how the reindeer are playing football with the Santas?” he pointed to the moving ornament. He then slipped over to a beautiful silver bell, “That is one that Mommy’s grandfather gave her when she was little.”

“The trains come every year from Santa Clause in my socks,” He told her, “Like you always get your kittens.” He pointed out the red bows that he helped tie on the tree. She gingerly touched the garland that surrounds the branches.

Each child taking a turn to point to an ornament on the tree, my son would tell the tale with love and a hint of superiority. He guided his sister through the ornaments one by one. She watched and listened and asked questions. She pointed to her own ornaments and told him about why she loved them. The shared secrets that they didn’t think I heard about which ones they thought were ugly.

They lay under the tree talking about Santa, about their dad’s Christmas tree, and about this Christmas tree. The laid there under the lights listening to the hum of the moving football ornament. It was yet another sign that Christmas magic still exists and that in the center of it all is a plastic tree with years of little ornaments that take us back to the very moment of when we got them.

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