When my first wartime Christmas came, I was in basic training in New Jersey and not sure if I would make it home for the holidays. Only on the afternoon of December 23 was the list of men who would have the three-day holiday posted. I was one of the lucky soldiers. It was Christmas Eve when I arrived home, and a little 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, and ornaments   shining against the green of a pine. "Where did it come from?" I asked. "I asked the Gates boy to cut it," my mother said. "I wouldn't have had one just for myself, but when in great need... such a rush! He just brought it in this afternoon." The pine reached to the proper height, almost to the ceiling, and the Tree Top Crystal  Star was in its place. A few green branches reached out a little awkwardly  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 Gates boy didn't know where to look for a better one. But I couldn't be fussy ." "Don't worry," I told her. "It's perfect." It wasn't, of course, but at the moment I realized something for the first time: All Christmas trees are perfect. What does the writer mean by saying "All Christmas trees are perfect"?
Nothing is as perfect as Christmas. Once at home, everything is so nice. During the war, trees are hard to find. All Christmas trees are the most beautiful.