“Be strong and keep still, little pine,” the big pine whispered. You’ve not had the advantage of my years of long, hot summers and of long, dry winters. Be strong. You may no longer grow up to be a big pine like me, but you can still grow to be huge in your own way.”

The two pines made the trip in silence. The little pine occasionally wanted to whimper due to its thirst, but kept silent. The big pine, with a much greater thirst because of its size, also wanted to complain, but kept silent. The two suffering pines, because of their shared thirst, maintained an absolute, shared silence.

At long last, the truck carrying both pines arrived in New York City. Neither pine, quite obviously, had ever seen so much light — at least not at night. Had they been less thirsty, they might’ve become excited. As it was, however, they could only register the light as a glimmer. And the glimmer, let’s be frank, was not of hope.

A different set of men met the truck and began to unravel the chains. The big pine bore the noise in silence and kept the ears of the little pine covered with a branch. The chains, even as they were being unraveled, whispered their apologies to both pines, link by link.

As it was, however, they could only register the light as a glimmer. And the glimmer, let’s be frank, was not of hope.

Once the chains had been undone, the big and little pine lay free. What followed remained a mystery.

They spent the remainder of the night in near silence. The lights of Rockefeller Center were much like the reflected light of the moon, but less so; they lacked the moon’s grace and nuance. Some time after midnight, but well before dawn, one of the men who’d helped to unravel the chains stopped, found a receptacle for water, then proceeded to massage the base of the big pine with a handful of wet newspapers. He mumbled to the big pine in a language the big pine had never heard, but the big pine was no less grateful for the attention.

As soon as the man left, the big pine turned an ear to the little pine.

“I can’t sleep,” the little pine whispered.

“Nor I,” whispered the big pine. “Come.” And with that, the big pine curled the needles of its branch around the little pine and scooched it in. From the brief mingling of their needles, the little pine took water — the bread and breath of life.