When I was a kid, 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. This year, I
found nothing.
“Open your palm and close your eyes,” said my
husband on the night before Christmas Eve.
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 and hoped it was diamond
earrings wrapped in fluffy tissue.
“Okay. You can open your
eyes.”
A red feather lay before
me. 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
feather or 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 chocolates from his favorite store, and a sparkly new
phone. I put activated charcoal pills (the only kind I had) in his stocking in
case I received more feathers.
There was only one gift
under the tree for me. When I stood to adjust 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. Would I need to give him his
stocking full of charcoal pills?
“Your turn,” he said.
I grabbed the gift with a
red feather taped to the top, in place of a bow, hoping for a tennis bracelet
that would blind the dead. 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 my husband’s stockings from the mantel, and threw my it 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
