As a dedicated, lifelong and - I hate to brag - masterful procrastinator, it came as no surprise that exactly five days after Christmas, I thought of what I should have written in my letter to Santa Claus.

“Dear Santa: I’ve been good. A few days after Christmas, when the toy-making is over, please send those elves to my house to take down the Christmas tree. I could really, really, really use some help.”

No kidding. Tree untrimming is a job - no, a chore - I could live without.

It’s not just the mess. It’s the melancholy.

Inevitably, as you savor sweet Christmas memories, there comes one last unwelcome “guest” - the lingering letdown that shows up when the tree comes down.

All the while - as the miles of red and gold ribbon are re-rolled, the glass icicles cosseted inside a foam-lined box, the angel ornaments wrapped lovingly - OK, grudgingly - and tucked into cartons - all the while there’s an unreasonable but undeniable feeling of loss.

The tree is coming down. Sigh.

Christmas is over. Sigh.

Christmas is over. Again.

Next year, the grandtwins and princess will be older - and wiser. Will they still believe with all their hearts?

Next year, I’ll be older and likely no wiser. Will I still be able to make it to the attic to drag out all the family treasures I now whine about putting away?

This year, I tried to take advantage of the pensive mood that descends as I strip the branches and box up the baubles. Surely this would be the perfect time to contemplate my new year’s resolutions.

Big mistake - unless you enjoy moving from letdown to meltdown.

Resolutioning quickly gave way to reminiscing. I challenged myself to think of something good that happened during Christmas for each decoration I removed from the tree. That wasn’t really too hard, but I have a lot of decorations. By the time I finished, it would have been time to put up next year’s tree.

My mind wandered and so did my eyes. From my perch on the ladder, struggling to remove the treetop angel, I had a direct view of the back yard - a view blocked by the tree from lower elevation.

Wow! Christmas isn’t over, I thought, in wonder. There’s a Christmas card in my back yard.

No kidding. The biggest, sassiest cardinal I’ve seen in years was perched on our bird feeder - an inspiring splash of red amid the bare branches and gray skies of winter. Imagine a little snow on the ground and you’ve got a Hallmark moment.

Then came the doves, half dozen of them, fat and waddling, gobbling up the birdseed that had fallen to the ground.

Then the woodpecker - another splash of red - swooping in with a selfish attitude and aerial swagger that reminded me of a playground bully.

After the bully had his fill, a chattering blue jay burst onto the scene, followed by sparrows and nuthatches, milling about and fluttering so joyfully they reminded me of a kindergarten class in the first moments of recess.

By the time the squawking grackles arrived, the birdseed was running low and I realized I would need to refill the feeder just as soon as … just as soon … just …

Oh, my. While I’d been mesmerized by the Christmas card scene, the man of the house had slipped in and silently taken down the rest of the decorations.

The tree was naked - the ribbon rolled, the ornaments ready to disappear.

Instantly my mood lifted.

Good old Santa. Even without being asked, he knew just when to send a Christmas card. And an “elf.”