The shipping cost $30. Inside, a knee-length pair of swim trunks, a tan bucket hat with an adjustable strap, and homemade goods—sourdough bread and jam—were the best I could do.
He’d left the clothes, and so returning them was the least I could do. Whether the other two were special enough, I had my doubts.
He is masterful with words, gifts, and being a dedicated friend. I feel like I’m always a step behind, tripping and running to catch up.
At Christmas, I opened presents selfishly, not having gotten anything in return. I’d simply shown up. Like I had all my bachelorette years.
“My presence is enough,” I nefariously believe.
And the heft of the guilt, as I pull apart the thoughtfulness, the care, the attention, reflects at me. I see my empty-handed giving, and I feel small.
Was my mom a disappointed gift receiver? Is that where this gift pressure and never-enoughness stems from?
Gifts were awkward at our house.
The image of my mom’s face, her “Oh!” all seemed to the camera as real. But didn’t I always look to her to know how she was doing? Wouldn’t I know better than anyone, my dependent, psychologically glued-to-her-happiness self?
Her self-worth. The brushing and brushing of her hair. The space taken up in the bathroom. Why didn’t she use the bathroom off her room anyway? I’d shared it with her. Both my brother and I did.
I’d feel tense watching her. Was she happy? Was this a day she liked what she saw?
Each step, each minute, each brush reluctantly turned over another piece of the picture. The tale of the tape.
I didn’t want to look. It was too sad.
Like the remaining bit of a fire’s wood, the grayest bits, and when touched, melting to dust—every bit of ground, foundation, and stability.
I’d heard “Last Kiss” years before. The Frank somebody-or-other version, not the newer Pearl Jam one. It was one of the rare snowstorms on the coast, and we’d arrived for a weekend trip to see Home Alone. For time away.
But we got a flat tire.
I remember that; ;darkness and that song.
It danced before me as a reflection. It hit close to home, and I held onto it like a gift. Only it wasn’t.
It was something more, like a forecast. A blizzard forecast we didn’t expect, but had to have known.
That knowing sits with me. The writing on the wall smeared in blood, saying, Get out.
Only you don’t, because you can’t.
Childhood is like that. Pictures, stories, disjointed and hard.
Where a happy memory isn’t, there holds the moment I knew my mom was going to die.
I knew it. Years before.
Maybe it was coincidence that she actually did. Maybe I was just a kid wrapping my head around mortality in a big way.
Or maybe I did know. That’s what it feels like to me, anyway.
I hope Reid enjoys his gift.
Love, Jaclynn
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