A gift is a risk. Let roses be the prodrome. It’s like it dropped a gold and a silver ring with its name on it in my brain. That was the gift before the storm. It sent you a stumbling block. Just scribble yes or no on the form. Now every time the doorbell rings I think someone’s sent me one. A gift is a guess. Did it come close? It’s what you need most that turns you nerve side out. Right now I think I’m growing something long thought and kind of clumsy. Just wrap it in drafts with awk in the margins. Stuff it in a wooden pillow with a drawer. A gift is a task. It could be oxblood or puce. You have to decide whether to send those flowers that drop whole from the stem or the ones whose petals fall one by one. You know how rain will turn the roses nerve side out? A gift is a test. They need to know that. When she wrote their thorns are the best part of them I can’t begin to tell you how many kinds of right she was. Now I think I’m growing something long thought to be the prerogative of certain entitled individuals. Wings or thorns. When all I wanted was a more subtle pulse at the throat bone. Well what size do you wear? I am smelting you a surprise. Not another luminous lyre cum lint remover. Take it from me. If you depend on gifts for what you need you’ll end up with a gold and a silver shoe both for the same lame foot. Copyright © 2015 by Alice Fulton. Used with permission of the author. |
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