It’s up.

It was the easiest tree job I’ve ever had. I didn’t have to go to a lot, or the woods. I bought it online, and it came in four days. You can’t beat that. Thank you, Mr. Bezos.

So there it is, that old, white cardboard box of ornaments from Maine Christmases past rests on the couch beside me.

Oh, there’s the angel. Thank God.

My oldest, when she was a child, took a Dixie cup, cut holes in the sides to slip in wings, and a face on top that she drew.

The wings and the face got lost years ago and were never replaced. Nothing is left now but the Dixie cup.

For all these years, it went on top. It meant a lot to her and all of us.

Christmas Eve would come, and she would Facetime us, as both girls do four times a day every day, and even 25 feet from the tree, she would ask, “Where’s my Dixie cup angel?” Yes, she’s a detail freak, and a supplier of masks and advice dedicated to keeping the rest of us alive.

Every family should have one like her.

Four years ago we splurged for a $250 tree. We bought dozens of fancy new ornaments. It wound up looking like Lady GaGa’s tree with a weathered Dixie cup on top.

The cardboard ornament box? Oh, yes.

It’s tattooed with black numbers from 1985 to 2001, when I stopped writing them. It waits for me to open it.

I hide it from my youngest daughter.

A Christmas will come and when she will ask where this box is, and I’ll have to tell her. Armed with a law degree, she has the eye of a prosecuting attorney, and besides being a talent agent, a preternatural memory.

Then, even if she’s wearing expensive evening clothes, she’ll sit on the floor with a black pen and fill in the years.

My iPhone shakes. It’s my Irish-Italian niece Lisa, a retired St. Louis cop who still talks like one. “Uncle Jerry. Omicron. You know what I’m saying to you?

“What channel is it on?” I ask.

“It’s not a show, Uncle Jerry. It’s a killer virus from South Africa. You know what I’m saying to you?

“I know what you’re saying.”

“Have you got your shots?”

“I got my shots.”

“And the booster?”

“And the booster.”

She seemed happy. I went and opened my new 12-bottle case of Stella Artois, took two, and sat by the unfinished tree.

President Joe Biden, also Irish, said: “Don’t panic,” just “be concerned.” Easy for him to say. He’s got the Secret Service. I’ve just got Lisa.

Well, I’m the grandchild of Irish immigrants, who survived the “Black and Tans,” World War I and World War II, and the Great Depression. We don’t do “concerned.” We go right straight to “panic,” and then to the closest bar.

It’s up and lighted. Wish I felt the same. You know what I’m saying to you?

J.P. Devine is a Waterville writer.