Long about the end of November, my mom would start piling shopping bags filled with Christmas presents in the corner of her bedroom. Bag after plastic bag would be stacked one on top of the other until the whole corner was one big credit card nightmare, not to be reckoned with until after the first of the year.
Each time we went into Mom and Dad's bedroom, those packages would call our names.
"Sharron, come have a peak!"
"Hello? Anybody want to know what's inside?"
"Greetings! I'm your Christmas present! Aren't you anxious to know what I am?"
And I did and I wanted to and I was sorely tempted. But I never looked. Not once. Not one peak. Not one furtive glance. Not one kick of a package with a toe to see if something would "accidentally" fall out. Never. I know that must be hard to believe, but it's true. I can still remember my mom looking me in the eyes and saying,
"Yes, those are your Christmas presents. I'm not going to hide them. You can look if you want to, but on Christmas morning, you won't have any surprises."
And boy, did I want those surprises! I wanted to rip the paper off those carefully wrapped boxes and find my next great gift waiting for me and only me to enjoy whatever pleasure it offered. A sweater soft as cashmere. A new purse. A Christmas puzzle. New earrings. Socks. It didn't matter. It was Christmas, and it was new, and it was mine.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment