We arrived at the Christmas tree lot after dark. My wife and I walked the long aisles of pinery, scrutinizing each tree as though it were asking for our kid’s hand in marriage.

Most trees were standing erect, like soldiers undergoing inspection. Others were slumping like they were tired of playing the game.

I noticed a large family also looking at trees. They were in our aisle. Their oldest son was extremely tall. Very skinny. But very young. Maybe 15 years old, towering over all other customers by at least a foot. He had the face of an infant.

I had seen this family in the parking lot earlier. They had arrived in a rusted economy vehicle. Their clothes looked worn. And even though it was 30-odd degrees outside, some of the kids were wearing Dollar General-style flip flops.

“Which tree do we we want?” the boy’s mom asked her children.

The tall boy’s brothers and sisters meandered from tree to tree, thoughtfully remarking on each one, as though the trees were people.

“Oh, this one looks so happy!” said one.

“No, I like this one!” said the boy’s kid sister as she shook the tree’s hand.

Meantime, the tall young man was staring at a lone tree. It was small, and seemed as though it had undergone a lifetime of malnourishment. The branches were skimpy, the trunk was not true, the top leader was crooked.

“I like this one,” the tall boy said.

“THAT one?” exclaimed Mom. “It’s puny.”

But it was too late. The boy had evidently already bonded with the tree.

“We are NOT getting that tree,” said Mom. “Are you out of your mind? I’m not wasting our money on that one.”

The boy was soft spoken and sincere. “Please, Mama.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

The boy explained to his mother that nobody else was going to buy this tree. It was too different. Too lean. The branches were too bare. People were going to think this tree was a freak. They’d call it “weird.” They’d overlook it.

Nobody wanted a sickly tree. They would choose pretty trees, with fluffy branches, and board-straight leaders, leaving this tree to sit here alone. After the Christmas season, this tree would likely end up in the bottom of a lake, or chopped into logs, lying in front of the Piggly Wiggly as severely overpriced firewood.

Mom just laughed at his explanation and said, “Get real.”

The rest of the family wandered away to look at more trees. But the boy stayed behind, transfixed with his anemic fir.

I watched the kid quietly ask a volunteer how much the tree cost. Then I saw him reach into his wallet and count his money in private.

He went to his mother again. “What if I bought this tree with my own money?”

“What has gotten into you?” said Mom. “We don’t HAVE money to throw around.”

“I’ll put it in my room.”

The mother laughed. “Your room is a mess.”

“So, I’ll clean it.”

“I thought you were going to buy shoes with that money.”

“They can wait.”

Mom laughed him off again. She told her son she’d think about it. But by her tone, you could tell she was really saying “no.” Mothers are experts at saying no without actually saying the word itself.

The boy meandered behind his family for the rest of the night, without uttering a sentence. And I wondered what was going on inside his head. I wondered how this boy knew so well what this particular tree was feeling.

I lost track of the family as my wife and I narrowed down our suitors, giving intensive physicals to half the conifers in Alabama.

But I caught a glimpse of the boy’s family, climbing into their beater vehicle at the end of the evening. I watched as they drove away, tail lights winking into the night.

And I could not help but notice that tightly secured to the vehicle roof were two trees.