The description isn't literal--you don't have EVERYTHING--but when I brainstorm and browse the internet for that perfect gift, it certainly feels right. You have all things you need, no doubt. And you have all the things you want. Because, and this is why you are so lovely, you want so little.
Clothes are too personal and food is too messy, and it spoils too quickly when it’s the good stuff. You read books too quickly to make buying them worthwhile. Though everyone enjoys a scented candle, the particular scent is hard to call. A picture frame (who prints them out anymore)? A set of golf balls? Wine glasses? Sunglasses? Bird feeder? DVD?
Maybe this year, it’s bigger: gifts of experience. Concert tickets are good, but the band you want to see is playing an hour away on a weeknight. A play? A day at the art museum, the Van Gogh exhibit? Skiing? Kayaking?
Something that reminds you of your childhood, perhaps. A big box of Hershey bars, a bag of marshmallows and a box of graham crackers. We can camp out one night. Or a desk lamp like the one you had in middle school. A lunch box like the one the bully stole from you. I can right the wrongs. Injustices don’t have to last forever.
No, you say. I’m sure I’ll love whatever you pick, you say. I’m not fussy, you say. World peace, you joke. Really, you say, I don’t need a thing.
I know you know I love you. We know that stuff is just stuff and ultimately, it won’t make us happy. That’s a lot to ask of a present.
Still, I look. I hunt you in places you would never go. I turn over trinkets and baubles. I run my hand across cashmere and wool and brushed cotton. I break open books and then study the wording on coffee mugs. I will find the one thing. And you will know the gift is not what’s in your hands, but all the hours spent getting it there.
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