This was odd. That triangular box sitting there in the corner of the dining room. It was wrapped as a Christmas gift except ‘A’ really wasn’t good at gift giving and not that he didn't care, wasn’t thoughtful, or didn’t want to, his mind and time were taken up with more critical things that made the difference between life and death; a job brutally demanding, draining and unpredictable. and I understood that. I really didn’t celebrate Christmas anyway, not in the material and rampant commercial sense, that is, but would always try to gift him something that would only hold deep meaning between the two of us and push me creatively.
This particular evening, I had prepared ten (10) songs which I penned in an Invitation to a Christmas Concert, rolled and secured with ribbon. I was dressed in holiday choir fashion and had practiced each song so that my voice would be at the very least, less Edith Bunker than usual.
And so it was that I had to ask him the obvious. “Is that a gift for me or is this something you received from someone else and wanted to show it to me?”
He gave me one of those looks like “Are you seriously asking me that?” and then responded sarcastically, ‘What do you think?”, challenging me to choose. Well, bad move on his part because, and he will admit, that when it comes to any sort of holiday or gifting, his track record spoke for itself, so I picked the “..someone else gave you this gift …” where I was immediately interrupted with an incredulously loud, “REALLY?”
Once I knew it was my gift I focused all of my energy, staring at it intently to see if I could penetrate the wrapping and decipher what it was. And because ‘A’ was being pretty much ignored, he gave up being annoyed and told me to go and open it. And when I had carefully and meticulously removed the wrapping paper, all the time being yelled at to just rip it off, I looked at this oddly shaped box and still had no idea what the contents could be. He came over and laid it down on its back and helped me open it. And there, lying in the box, was a beautiful, brand new Ibanez acoustic guitar. I raised my head to look at him in disbelief. The only thing that I could utter was a gasp while the impact of his gift hit me and pulled me under, like a tsunami and then the tears began to fall.
I was one of five siblings with a Mother who never missed an opportunity to let us know how much we ruined her life and a father, who was sick and in the hospital for spells, who loved his children but didn’t have much time or money to provide. He did the best he could with what he had and when we were very young, we would run out in the driveway when he returned from work and would sit on his feet or hang on his legs and he would walk like Frankenstein, trying to pick up the extra weight, laughing and smiling while we cheered him on. I lived for that moment and would wait by the door until I saw him and yell, “Dad’s home”. While my mother worked, mostly nights and weekends, he would give us our baths on Saturday night while he made sauce and would use crazy foam to create elaborate headdresses or facial expressions, beards and other assorted adornments while we played in the water. When we were a bit older, he bought a plastic mat and placed it in the backyard in the winter, filled it with water so we could “skate” on ice. He taught himself guitar and when he was with us on the weekends, he would play us songs that we would sing along with or dance to. I knew someone gave him that guitar and then one day it was gone and so was the music. We were older and used weekends to escape the house of anger, frustration, abuse, lack and each other.
Finally eighteen and out on my own, I cherished those special times of laughter and fun with my father and wanted to learn to play the guitar, looking to recapture those small pockets of time when I felt loved and happy and not so alone. As fate would have it, my boyfriend found a guitar left behind in an apartment they were painting and brought it home for me. The first song I taught myself to play was ‘Morning has Broken’ by Cat Stevens. I would teach myself to play a few other songs but I was not making much money and when it came to paying for my rent, car and insurance, I had a hard time. Forget food, I went hungry unless we had a fruitful fishing expedition. And so, for the first of three times in my life, I would have to sell my belongings to cover my living expenses, The guitar went and along with it, those pockets or pieces of time that gave me great comfort.
And so here it was, the object of a memory that filled my heart, that gave me a smile and tied me to the only love I knew as a child, even just for moments here and there, always occluded by my mother’s wrath. The loss of having to let that go in order to survive; heartbreaking. I couldn’t speak over the profound and utter gratitude and understanding of how this wonderful man, remembering a story I told him some years back, thought enough of me to go and retrieve what I had to give up, due to circumstances, so many years before, and give it back to me, this time, for keeps.
T’was several nights before Christmas and all through the house, there was music and laughter and even a mouse. The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, in hopes that someone besides me would be there. And I in my satin skirt and him in his blue, he cringed as I sang out the songs that I knew and when it was over and he was ready to leave, I thanked him for giving me back a very big piece of me….
Wishing you all the blessings and wonder of this Holiday Season and receiving
something that means the world to you!
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