The tinsel came in a cardboard box with a cellophane window. Inside, the strands were bundled in neat coils, each one heavy for its size. My grandmother always handled it. She’d sit in the armchair by the tree, a strand draped over her thumb like thread.

She didn’t toss it. She placed it. One strand at a time, starting at the top, working down in slow spirals. The tinsel was cool to the touch, slightly greasy from storage. It made a soft rustle as she pulled it from the box, like paper money unfolding.

The metal had a smell—not strong, but there. Metallic, clean, like coins fresh from the bank. When you handled it, the strands wanted to stick together, and you’d have to separate them carefully.

I watched from the floor, close enough to see the silver catch the light from the big colored bulbs. Each strand glinted differently depending on the angle. Some looked almost blue. Others went dull in the shadow of a plastic branch.

My grandmother never spoke while she worked. She just breathed through her nose and placed another strand. If one fell, she picked it up and started again.

The tinsel changed the way the tree held light. The colored bulbs reflected off each strand differently, creating depth, movement. When the furnace kicked on and the air moved, the whole tree seemed to breathe, silver catching and releasing light in waves. At night, with just the tree lights on, the living room became something else.

Months later, in March, I found a single strand caught in the shag near the baseboard. It had worked its way loose during the New Year’s party, when someone knocked over a glass of ginger ale. The strand lay curled like a question mark, catching the weak afternoon sun through the picture window.