When my first wartime Christmas came, I was in basic training in New Jersey and not sure if I could make it home for the holiday. Only on the afternoon of December 23 was the list if men who would have three-day posted. I was one of the lucky soldiers. It was Christmas Eve when I arrived, and a light snow had fallen. Mother opened the front door. I could see beyond her, into the corner of the living room where the tree had always stood. There were lights, all colors, shining against the green of a pine. 'Where did it come from?' I asked. 'I asked the gate boy to cut it ,' my mother said, 'I wouldn't have one just for myself, but when called--oh, such a rush ! He just brought it in this afternoon.' Krysal Star was in its place. A few green branches reached about a little disorderly at the side, I thought, and there was a bit of bare trunk showing in the middle. But the tree filled the room with warm light and the whole house with the pleasant smell of Christmas. 'It's not like the one you used to find,' my mother went on, 'Yours were always in good shape. I suppose the gate boy didn't know where to look . But I couldn't be critical.' 'Don’t worry,' I told him, 'It’s perfect.' It wasn't of course, but at the moment I realized for the first time: all Christmas tree are perfect. From the passage we can infer that ______.