The flatbed prepared to pull out. One man stood atop it and swept needles to the ground. His broom nudged the little pine and then rose up to knock it to the pavement.

I will not be swept to the pavement, the little pine thought with a little pine’s hubris. I am a little pine from Connecticut, scion to a big pine from Connecticut, and I am a water-bearer — the bread and breath, etc.

The man had no ear for the little pine’s thoughts and promptly whacked it and its thoughts to the ground.

Onlookers were now gathering at Rockefeller Center to watch the lighting of the big pine. As they gathered and jostled for position, they trampled the little pine underfoot. More of its needles grew brittle, fell off and were shoed away indifferently by many feet shod in leather, rubber, or vinyl to the silent protestations of a little half-dead pine.

At the appointed hour, with spotlights fixed on the big pine while thousands upon thousands gazed on and millions of others gazed through the dead, metallic eye of television, the lights of the big pine were lit.

Oohs and ahhs; sighs; then applause — none of which meant anything to the big pine, now close to death. Needless to say, nothing came bac. through the metallic eye of the television camera, either.

At the appointed hour, with spotlights fixed on the big pine while thousands upon thousands gazed on and millions of others gazed through the dead, metallic eye of television, the lights of the big pine were lit.

A great deal of hoopla followed the grand event of the lighting of the Christmas Tree at Rockefeller Center, and all of the great men associated with the staging of this event felt proud, happy, and oddly self-satisfied. Eventually, however, the evening had to come to a close — as all evenings must, good or bad.

The crowd diminished stratum by stratum until only the clean-up crews remained. Legions upon legions of men with brooms descended upon Rockefeller Center to sweep away the remnants of the lighting of the great Christmas Tree — formerly, the big pine.

The little pine huddled in a corner, on the sidewalk, with only a cold cement wall to give it support, and focused all of his energy on just one thought: Why have you forsaken me, big pine?

At intervals, men bearing brooms swept by. At further intervals, the lights around Rockefeller dimmed, then went out. The lights on the big pine remained bright and undiminished — as did the light of the moon, now even more graceful and nuanced. The big pine, not visible to the little pine huddled in its corner, necessarily stood out of sight, out of touch, and most likely — thought the little pine — out of water.

A single garbage truck turned the corner at 49th Street and started up towards 5th Avenue —the last detail making its final round of clean-up. Men in uniform re-emptied empty garbage cans into the truck, speared or swept up last pieces of paper and napkins, and readied the street for the next day’s business. The little pine saw them coming, saw the finality of their clean-up efforts, envisioned the finality of a life the big pine had once called “everlasting.” But without the big pine, the little pine felt it could no longer join “ever” to “lasting.”