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Day Eight: The Robin
Dec. 8th, 2003 10:11 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
jfs.livejournal.comMy brother and I used to hunt for our presents; it was one of the rituals before Christmas and our birthday. At the age of four, there were many places we were not allowed to go in the house, and I can see now that it would have been easy for our parents to hide our presents there, but they did not; at least, not all of them. It was always possible to find at least one present each and to go through the ritual of first gazing on it, then touching it, then lifting and shaking it, desperately trying to guess what was hidden under the green and red skin of this wonderful beast.
Our fourth Christmas, however, my brother went too far. He had seen the presents being hidden behind the door in the front room and when Mother and Father were elsewhere in the house, he dragged me in there, behind the sofa to see what we might find. His present was about the size of a violin case, though rectangular in shape, and try as he might, he could not guess what it might be. But my present was huge; a box nearly as tall as I was, and impossible to lift. I was almost paralysed with delight at the sheer enormity of the gift but my brother was jealous. When you are four, winning and losing are measured in so many ways, and the size and number of presents received are one of those metrics.
At first he tried to get me to rip the paper, to expose what lay underneath, but I would not, could not despoil such a delightful sight. When I would not move, he called me a coward, and a baby, scared of Mother and Father and he pushed me to emphasise his dominance. I pushed back and we fought with the familiarity of twins, each knowing just how to hurt the other, but holding back just enough to stop from real damage. But then he declared that if I would not open the present he would, and he reached out his hand towards the blood red ribbon that encircled it. What could I do? I could not let him ruin my present, or Christmas. I slapped his hand, hard, and then his face, and we fought in earnest; me to protect that which was mine, and him to survive.
Our fourth Christmas, however, my brother went too far. He had seen the presents being hidden behind the door in the front room and when Mother and Father were elsewhere in the house, he dragged me in there, behind the sofa to see what we might find. His present was about the size of a violin case, though rectangular in shape, and try as he might, he could not guess what it might be. But my present was huge; a box nearly as tall as I was, and impossible to lift. I was almost paralysed with delight at the sheer enormity of the gift but my brother was jealous. When you are four, winning and losing are measured in so many ways, and the size and number of presents received are one of those metrics.
At first he tried to get me to rip the paper, to expose what lay underneath, but I would not, could not despoil such a delightful sight. When I would not move, he called me a coward, and a baby, scared of Mother and Father and he pushed me to emphasise his dominance. I pushed back and we fought with the familiarity of twins, each knowing just how to hurt the other, but holding back just enough to stop from real damage. But then he declared that if I would not open the present he would, and he reached out his hand towards the blood red ribbon that encircled it. What could I do? I could not let him ruin my present, or Christmas. I slapped his hand, hard, and then his face, and we fought in earnest; me to protect that which was mine, and him to survive.
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