At dawn, their nearly silent night done, both pines slowly awoke to the sounds of the big city. Truth is, those sounds had started much earlier, had started with the clamorous roll of the garbage trucks. The little pine had been the first to awaken, had fidgeted as any little pine would, but had been mindful not to awaken the big pine. As soon as the sun had cleared the horizon, however, the big pine awoke to find itself lying in a pool of its own sap.

“Today” the big pine said, “is my Golgatha.”

The little pine had no idea what the big pine was talking about. It thought the big pine might be hallucinating because of its thirst — then thought again quickly.

“Be strong and keep still, big pine,” the little pine whispered. You’ve not had my advantage of youth, of brief summers and brief winters. Be strong. Your days as a big pine reigning over the grove may already be over, but you can still be huge in your own way.”

The little pine had no idea what the big pine was talking about. It thought the big pine might be hallucinating because of its thirst — then thought again quickly.

The big pine crinkled its needles at the little pine. (This is how pines smile at one another.)

In spite of the cold, a whole new crew bearing toasty Christmas sentiments arrived with a crane and a stand as big as a Yellow Cab to erect the big pine at Rockefeller Center so that people could come to admire it — and, they hoped, to admire their work so there would be more of it the following year.

They hitched the crane to the big pine and dragged it up to a vertical position. As they did so, the big pine had to let go of the little pine. The little pine, for the first time, felt truly abandoned. Its needles began to dry out quickly and fall off — not because it lacked water, but because it lacked contact with the big pine. It was shrinking in desolation.

The big pine, now standing vertical (but still hitched to the crane), looked down and directed its thoughts at the little pine: Don’t even think of dying. Not here. Not now. Your life has barely begun. You are my continuation. My life. My life everlasting.

The little pine sighed; looked at the dry needles it had just shed; made a little pine’s gesture to brush them off the flatbed on which it still lay; then looked up speechless at the pig pine.

Throughout the day, many men worked on the big pine. There were hundreds of strands of lights and thousands of bulbs to hang. To them, the big pine was a work in progress — a paycheck — to buy Christmas gifts for their children. Beneath them, at this very moment, hundreds skated on artificial ice. To either side of them, hundreds of others dined on something resembling food. It was as the big pine had predicted: thousands upon thousands would come to wish and to believe.

And come they did. They came from many countries and continents, speaking many languages, following many faiths. They came knowing little of Rockefeller Center, caring nothing of the provenance of little pines or big pines — knowing and caring even less about Connecticut — whether the Connecticut of Darien, of Southport or even of New Haven —and yet they came. They came with a wish: that one more year and one more big pine could deliver them from the present. What’s more, their wish was the distillation of the wish of millions of others who could only dream of making such a trip. Their wish was as exuberant as maple syrup — and just as sticky.

By the end of the day, the work was finished. That same evening, the lights would be lit. That same evening, the big pine would come into its full Christmas glory — as it approached death.