You were always going to buy me one
always going to
going to….
You wanted to so much so that
every Christmas
and Mothers day
and all of my birthdays
I held a little less hope
and was embarrassed to have hoped
for such an extravagance.
Unnecessary
ridiculous
until it became a whimsical joke between us
until you forgot
or remembered
and worried about the expense
then felt bad
that you had let me down somehow
until I told you that it didn’t matter
and as your memory gradually splintered
it didn’t matter anyway.
For years I forgot all about
this beautiful ungiven gift
until one day, when you were particularly worried about how much money we had in the bank,
I told you a pure white lie.
I wanted to alleviate your confused anxiety
so I pretended that we had won a lot of money on lotto
and the long-ago, work-weary farmer in you
beamed with delight and relief.
It was a brilliant lie and the first of many
that seemed to electrify your skinny brain cells,
unchoke and nourish them
and remind you of the ungiven gift.
Bring me a catalogue so I can choose one for you, you said.
Okay, I said.
But of course we both forgot all about it.
I lied when I said I would be back in half an hour.
I lied when I said that the overcooked scrambled egg you got for dinner
was crayfish.
I lied when I said that your dead mother was alive and well and cooking a roast for us.
I lied when I said you were getting better every day.
And you believed me
because you trusted me more than anyone in the world.
And the lies of golden silence also became the norm
when, on your 80th birthday,
you thought you had just turned 50,
when, having forgotten how to walk,
you told me you had just been on a 20 kilometre run,
when, thinking our adult son was still a toddler you could see playing with his train tracks in the corner of your room,
I nodded in agreement
and shared your delight.
One day, not long before you forgot how to speak,
you reminded me about the ungiven gift.
It was just after I had given you my daily reassurance about our bank balance
to which I always added at least one zero.
Have you found one you like? you asked.
Not yet, I said, squeezing your big, gnarled hand.
But of course we both forgot all about it.
Just before the first Christmas,
I was wandering through a shopping mall
not sure what I was looking for
not looking for anything
my heart pumping its new tune of panic
my eyes blurry with the constant hay-fever I excused them with
(such a seasoned liar!)
its shimmer nevertheless caught my attention.
I stopped in my tracks and stared at it
wiped my eyes on my sleeve
stared again
felt the ghost of your smile touch my lips
….and I somehow knew.
Make sure it is authentic, and ask for a discount, you whispered
My fingers are too short, I whispered back.
Try it on.
With a calm, unfamiliar certainty
I walked into the shop
and tried it on.
A gift from my husband, I told the shop assistant proudly, as she gift-wrapped it.
You must have a wonderful husband, she said.
I do.
On that first Christmas day
I opened your gift by myself and put it on
then I took it off and put it back into its little box.
I didn’t tell anybody about it
because I wanted it to be a secret treasure just between us.
And all these long months later – now, almost two years
I just take it out and wear it when I am by myself
I don’t know why that is,
it just is.
The ungiven gift
given
of an emerald ring.
jmgoyder 