The Gift

 

The gift was sitting on the shelf for many years.

He'd dust it off from time to time, felt better

when it sat there in plain view. It didn't need unwrapping,

thought the man, because the shape and color of the box

was quite enough. Delightful just the way it was. He couldn't bear

to tear the wrapping and enjoyed the mystery inherent to the

gift that he received but never opened.

The person who had given it, of course, was not amused.

He felt the man had taken it for granted, been ungrateful.

All the thought and cost invested, just to sit there? No.

One day he took it back and gave it to another, and the first man

didn't even notice. Surely this man, this second man, the giver 

thought,would open it and cherish it for all its worth.

The second man did open it, did sigh and shake his head

with gratitude, amazement at his...luck? his blessing, what?

He didn't know the ins and out or whats or whys and did not

feel the need to, but he loved the gift so much that he would take it

from its box and hold it up to let it catch the light, throw

prisms, rainbows on the humdrum walls of his existence, then

replace it in its box. It would look so lovely on his desk,

he thought, or on the chest of drawers within his room but

he was paralyzed with fear, lest someone see it, take it,

smash it out of anger towards him.

The giver of the gift was still unsatisfied, but gave him space

and time until he realized the value of the gift, the way it would

enhance his life once placed there in the open, once he celebrated

all it meant, once he threw away its box.

(c) Ellen Gillette, 2020