The women in my family eat up those email surveys resulting in a flooded inbox of answers to questions that really don’t tell you anything that you didn’t already know about the person (seriously, who really cares what someone’s favorite soda is?). That being said, I will admit that I almost always get sucked into filling one out myself.
As I was deleting the answers to someone else’s survey so that I could plug in my own, I came across the question, “What was the worst Christmas present you ever received?” Her answer was simple but has resonated with me for quite some time: “a patchwork quilt that Grandma made for me out of scraps.”*
We have all received these kinds of home/handmade gifts that aren’t appealing to the eye. I know I’ve grumbled about my own over the years, but at a time when I am missing my grandma and all that she meant to my life, so deeply, I would be happy to have anything made by her hands.
The afghan she made me was wrecked years ago by one of the numerous puppies to go through my family. I have several store-bought gifts from her and of course, they are significant in their own way but only my crocheted slippers, which match the ones she made for my daughter and her doll, Honey (only Honey and I haven’t outgrown ours), encapsulate her touch, scent, and heart.
I won’t wear the slippers because I’m scared. I’m scared of the yarn wearing out and with it her scent and her presence. Most of all, I’m scared that when this pair is gone, there will be no more the way another pair always replaced the ones we outgrew or wore out when she was alive. And so they remain in the shoe box I hid them in. When I need to, I can lift the lid and smell her.
*Now, if the person said this is reading, this is not a dig on you, just simply the thoughts that your words provoked in me. Its okay for you to feel that way, it just got me thinking about my own emotions linked to gifts I have received.
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