Once again my husband has asked me for a Christmas list. I’ve never given him one in thirteen years, and he seems to do just fine without one. My list to myself is the gift of time and loving; to give the time to things and people that I love. Last year on Christmas morning I opened a tiny jeweler’s box, mindful of my husband’s anticipation of my reaction. In the box was a lovely opal ring, and I had to frame the words of appreciation in my mind carefully because he’d gotten me one very similar two years before. It may be taken as a funny story, but there’s a much more complex story underneath. This was in fact the very ring he’d already given me, and that I had obviously not worn enough to remember what it looked like. The act, interaction, and future of two people were embedded in that moment. The next package I opened was another ring, a new one which I wear every day, because he understood that opal is too fragilely soft a stone to handle the life my hands deal with daily.
I’ve learned many lessons through my life, and some are missed or put aside to ponder for another day. I will, however, not write a list for J. this Christmas either. Maybe I’ll see a need when we are a bit older, and need lists just to get about our days.
The Lost Children: A Charity Anthology