“What do you mean it’s almost time Mommy?” the little one asks, trembling slightly in the morning frost.
“You know it is,” says the mom, “You know it comes every year.”
“But why, Mommy? Why do we have to suffer so much loss?”
“So that others can be happy, little one.”
The scream of the chainsaw starts behind them. They don’t move, they all stand still. One by one they fall to the ground, never uttering a sound. Hundreds, thousands fall and die year after year, and they never utter a sound.
The little one is left standing, perhaps next year. The mother is dragged away, her barely rotting corpse is bought and paid for. She is decorated in death in beautiful colors and lights. But you, you know what you did.
Christmas, the holiday where we ruthlessly murder one tree each.