Shooting Stars.

Snow crunches beneath our feet as we make our way through the forest, using the torches our mother has given us to navigate through the darkness. My sister carries a bag; I hear the plastic rustling in the wind, the baubles we've saved from overflowing skips tinkling merrily inside. I can sense her excitement, can practically feel her bristling with it beside me. I tell her to calm down, to wait - we're almost there.

We break through into a clearing, see the lonely tree stood in the center. This is what we are here for, this is why we come every year at Christmas.

We are too poor to afford a real Christmas tree of our own, not even one of those artificial ones. I used to be envious of other families, used to sneak onto their gardens and hide under their windows to watch as they decorated their fiber-optic trees with fairy-lights and golden angels. We never had any of that as I grew up and now, my sister must follow suit and endure what I had to.

I bring her here instead though, to our own special tree. It's not even a fir and it's only a sapling but my sister squeals in delight at the sight of it, kicking up snow as she runs. The decorations fly out as she goes, the discarded bag blowing away from the breeze. I collect the scattered baubles as I make my way to her, locate the bag at the base of an oak. When I arrive by her side, her face is lit up and I can't help but smile back.

"You should be careful with these, " I tell her, holding up the sodden tinsel and a broken bauble. "They're the only ones we have."

This doesn't dampen her spirits and she nods enthusiastically, taking the tinsel from my hands and running in circles around the the tree with it, wrapping it in a spiral around the spindly trunk.

"Does Santa know where to find us?" my sister pipes up, rubbing at her nose with her scarf. She looks up at me, her face pink from the cold.

My mother and I save money throughout the year to buy my sister one spectacular present. I wonder if she is thinking about the other children and their stockings full of gifts, comparing her solitary toy to them. Maybe she feels as if she's being overlooked, somehow?

I'm not sure what to say. I stall for time, hanging an ornamental snowman from one of the tree's twigs. It bobs when I let go, the branch threatening to snap. My sister repeats the question, thinking I haven't heard her.

Frantically, I look into the sky and inspiration gloriously hits me. With a gloved finger, I point up, picking out the constellations to her.

"Of course he does. Father Christmas uses the stars, like a pirate. The constellations act as markers for him and when you see a shooting star, that's him travelling across the world in his sleigh."

She tips her head back to stare in wonder at the night sky, gaping at the twinkling lights. Then a small frown appears on her lips.

"If he is a shooting star, then why do I see them in summer? And spring?" she asks suspiciously.

I think fast, I talk faster.

"Do you expect him to stay at the North Pole all year until Christmas? He's scouting out materials for the toys he makes, checking up on children to see if they're still being good. He is the boss, you know."

"Oh!" she breathes, her eyes widening, as if what I have said is the most obvious thing in the world and she can't believe she has missed it.

I tug on her hat playfully and she giggles, scooping up a handful of snow to throw at my chest. It misses but I fall back onto the ground as if she has hit me, flapping my arms and legs to make a snow angel. I stand up, shake the excess snow off my coat and beckon her over, indicating to the shape.

"For our tree - because we couldn't find an angel to go on top of it." I tell her quietly. She squeezes my arm in a gesture of appreciation then together, we stand back and admire our handiwork.

The sapling is struggling under the weight of all our second hand decorations. It's a sorry sight; the tree has the look of something neglected that someone has tried to hopelessly rejuvenate.

"This is the best Christmas tree ever, isn't it?" she says imploringly, unwilling to confirm the statement until I agree with her.

I hold her small hand in mine and grin, hearing the smile in my voice.

"The very best."