Day Ten: The Present

[jfs.livejournal.com]

For my thirtieth birthday, and my thirtieth Christmas, I gave a present to myself. It was a small tin box, the sort that tobacco and fishing bait could easily be in, the sort that all grandfathers kept for keeping screws and nails and fish hooks in. I had wrapped it carefully, green paper with a red ribbon, taking my time over it. Who else would give me a present this year?

I still made an effort. My father taught me before he left us that all a man had was his standards. If those slipped, he was no longer a gentleman. Sometimes I think he never managed to persuade my mother of that, and that was why he left.

I put my present under the tree and tried not to think about it. I went to midnight mass as usual. There was no mistletoe. Fred Quinn had died last year and no one wished to disturb his memory by hunting for his trees. I shook hands with those few villagers who were out this late, season’s greetings heavy in the air as I hurried home through the drizzle and the wind.

Christmas morning brought a sea grey sky, and I wrapped myself in my robe and slippers before heading downstairs. I prepared breakfast - bacon, eggs, sausage, toast; setting four places at the table in the dining room for the guests I was expecting. Once everything was perfect, I went to the tree and picked up my present. Shaking it, I heard it rattle; the harsh clatter of metal on metal. I took the paper off carefully and opened the tin, seeing without surprise the small key inside.

I held the key in my hands and went towards the door. The lock no longer screeched as it once had. I turned the key and put my hand on the handle to open the door.

Merry Christmas Mother. Merry Christmas Father. Merry Christmas Jessica, Robin.

I stepped back.

Breakfast is ready.