A snapshot from a gift, a book called The Andy Warhol Show
This piece: “Handle with care—Glass—Thank you” 1962
Christmas Day: I went to visit friends because seeing kids run around a tree is a great way to feel the spirit of the holiday. The little ones were already exhausted from their toys, chasing each other for entertainment. I scarfed a maple scone and watched the blurs.
The whole gang left to see the grandparents a few hours later. “C’mon down.” my friends said. They always have room for more. I wasn’t going to see my mom until later in the afternoon, so I pushed aside the guilt of not bearing any gifts and drove over.
I was welcomed warmly, pointed to the direction of coffee, and invited to sit for gift exchange.
Scratching my head on the inside how it was possible, a pile of wrapped items appeared for me to open.
I had help from the kids—imparting my gift-guessing skills in the process. I explained the logic of touch, shape, tilt and heft. I used big words, and it though it might’ve seemed the small ears weren’t listening, I knew they were.
The gifts were great—more than great.
But I want to note one in particular. The last in the stocking. Palm sized, it made a rattle when shaken. My unwrapping compadre and I were perplexed with no guesses. Their small fingers wrestled eagerly with the tape and paper.
It was a box of paperclips.
I about lost it, but all that came out was a smile.
Always knitting my brows trying to find the perfect gift, I routinely forget—its not about that at all. It’s about a lot of things, I figure, but being together ranks up way up there.
I shall bite my lip if ever I say the magic is gone or the spirit is lost in the season.
I have paperclips to remind me.
Current music: Damien Rice “Delicate”