My mother hid my gifts every Christmas, but I always found them. I was like a truffle-hunting pig, rooting them from locked suitcases and dusty cupboards, foraging for them in the attic. “Open your palm,” said my husband.
I splayed my hand and squeezed my eyelids, figuring the gift might be heavy, like pottery or books, so I clenched my muscles. I felt a weightless tickle. “Okay. You can open your eyes.”
It was a red feather. My husband had done this with a strip of red licorice, a pretty rock or seashell, a chocolate kiss. “That’s not funny,” I said.
That night, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I pretended to be asleep.
The next day, I found the red feather in the utensil drawer. I grabbed a knife and slammed the drawer shut. Opening the fridge, I noticed a bowl of dirt—or sand beside the milk. My husband entered the kitchen with bare feet, yawned in the annoying way he does, like a tired dog, and hugged me from behind. I didn’t say anything about the fridge.
On Christmas Eve, I wrapped my husband’s presents and placed them under the tree: a goofy tie with clowns I found online, some matches from our favorite restaurant, and a new phone. I put charcoal in his stocking in case I received more feathers.
There was only one gift under the tree for me. I frowned and stood, adjusting a few ornaments that were hanging backward. I noticed a tacky plastic palm frond projecting from the middle branches. Usually, I would laugh. But the lack of gifts made me feel gloomy.
After a candlelight dinner, we opened gifts. I glanced at the stockings, then handed my husband his packages. He opened them and laughed, wrapping the tie around his head. I eyeballed my single package, then the stockings. “Your turn,” he said.
I grabbed the gift with a red feather taped to the top instead of a bow. My stomach constricted. I tore the foil away and ripped off the tape; the box indicated it was a re-gift. I opened the flaps, burrowing into the tissue paper. I discovered an empty coconut and a photo of a Scarlet Macaw.
“We’re going to Costa Rica!” he exclaimed.
I ran to the fireplace, tearing the stockings from the mantel. I threw my husband’s stocking into the fire.
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! The best gift you can give me is a rave, rating, or review!
"I have found that among its other benefits, giving liberates the soul of the giver" ~ Maya Angelou
