THE GIFT by Chris Howard

I shopped in a small boutique in a neighboring town that I tend to shy away from. A store that was highly recommended by a woman I trust in these matters who also has a daughter, although one that is much older now. I was determined to find something personal, something other than the clothes and books that my wife would certainly be showering her with, going in intent on finding some sort of jewelry that she might like, maybe something with her birth stone, as I’d done once before, only this time I couldn’t come up with the mineral.

The place was tiny but every inch of wall and transparent shelf was stuffed with merchandise. Glass cases lined the narrow space, and there were others, free standing, leaving just enough room for someone my size to pass through, all of which were decorated and draped with necklaces and pins and earrings and other trinkets. I was immediately overwhelmed by the sheer volume, unable to focus on any one object.

I must have wandered from the door to the back of the store half a dozen times before spotting the small collection of sculpted fairies on one of the shelves. They were all quite intricate with delicate looking butterfly wings and tiny arms and legs, beautifully proportioned, none more than a few inches tall. Some rode frogs and dragonflies, while others flew on their own. The one that I was constantly drawn back to hovered over a bouquet of white daffodils, suspended by a fine brass rod that sprang from the center of the flowers. The dress reminded me of one of the costumes that my daughter still likes to wear around the house from time to time, although, being the last to enter double digits, her fondness for this may begin to fade. I bobbed and weaved a little, trying to read the price tag that I guessed would be on the bottom. Without my glasses and the angle being as acute as it was, I could see only a white blur on the base, finding any text impossible to discern. I was silently vacillating, it looked pricey, I didn’t have the money for such an expensive gift.

The woman on the phone (the only other person in the store) couldn’t help but notice my somewhat bizarre behavior and asked if there was anything I’d like to see a little closer. I pointed to the little statue as she unlocked the case and slid the glass door to one side. There were so many other objects surrounding the piece that I shied away from trying to remove it myself, asking if she wouldn’t mind. Everything in there looked fragile and it was all the way in the back, behind the others. Reaching into that case with my own clumsy fingers could have caused this afternoon excursion to be extremely costly.

As it turned out there was no price on the bottom at all so she had to do a little research to find out what the damages were going to be. I decided while she was in the back room that I would buy it regardless of the cost, sort of, at least if it didn’t exceed a hundred, scouting the counter in her absence, hoping to reassure myself that there was a credit card machine available. Although she is the youngest of the three, we are the ones with the most history, she being the only one that ever spent time with me during the two years of isolation and legal affairs.

I was relieved at the thirty two dollar price tag, figuring they’re probably cast in China or Vietnam or India or one of the other nations that are slowly putting the bloated, selfish, over consuming, arrogant and unionized U. S. out of business. It was nicely made though, exquisite really; I wasn’t overly concerned about its country of origin, only the little girl it was intended for.

I got back to the office, wrote a short note on the card that I’d picked up on the way, added a little bubble wrap and covered the box in brown paper, addressing it appropriately, and being certain to write “fragile” in enough places that it would be seen regardless of orientation, gaining just a small amount of comfort while understanding the futility of this exercise. The whole operation felt a little strange as this would be the first time that I would be mailing one of my children a birthday present. I suppose it’s something I’m going to have to get used to.

The email came late Saturday although I didn’t pick it up until Sunday afternoon. It was a short thank you note from my daughter sent through my wife’s address; she hasn’t gotten one of her own yet. She told me that she really liked the fairy but wanted to know why it was two days late and added that she was still mad at me for leaving. She will never be permitted to express her own feelings, always being influenced by the will of her mother. I was relieved and almost exhilarated to receive the note, despite the negative aspect, knowing how much courage it took for her to even ask if it would be all right to send it.