December 2009 Flash Fiction Contest Winner
“Unwrapped”
by Mike Ermitage (mermitage)
The unraveled red bow on top of the present requested fixing but I couldn’t oblige. I considered it a minor miracle that the present made it a decade with its neat, fixed bow intact. Even the red streaming curly ribbon under the bow survived albeit lacking most of its original bounce. The once vibrant green paper had turned a pale version of itself and next to the other presents under the tree, it looked severely aged. I could rescue it from its degradation, I thought, by simply doing what my wife wanted me to do ten years ago. And if she were here… well, if only she were here. You never forget the details of the Christmas morning your wife died.
“Hello, Mr. Van der kiln, this is officer Hanritty.”
Silence.
“I have some bad news for you. Your wife was in a car accident. She, uh, well, she passed Mr. Van der kiln. I’m sorry.”
Silence.
“She’s at Southwest Community Hospital.”
I hung up the phone without ever speaking a word. In retrospect, I knew something terrible happened to her before that phone rang. She went to the store to pick up another couple bottles of wine but too much time passed. I can think of a million things she could have been doing to hold her up - most of them involving the magazine rack at the grocery store - but I knew. I suppose others can testify that you develop a sixth sense about the people you truly love. Her last words to me were, “Found my keys! Love you.” At least I have that.
The funeral came and went and so did New Year’s. The presents slowly disappeared from under our fake pine until just one present remained surrounded by dozens of fake pine needles. Jenny had opened her present from me the night before because she was never able to wait until Christmas morning. I am stubborn, though, and always insist on opening presents on Christmas day. I nearly opened it immediately craving some connection to Jenny but then I worried it’d be my last connection. So, I saved it. It moved from apartment to apartment and now into my condo. It rested comfortably in a bag inside a box marked Xmas and made its annual appearance along with my sparse few other decorations. It visited attics and garage shelf space as well as apartment storage units. But it did so in style, occupying the safest spot away from all the items that seem to attach themselves to an individual, the crown jewel of the traveling refuse.
Every Christmas, I spend some time with the present, holding it and giving it a light shake. Sometimes, I pour a glass of red wine, extract my favorite pictures of Jenny, and travel back in time right there on my living room floor. This Christmas, however, is different. I am engaged to a wonderful new woman who laughs at my jokes and writes me notes on my foggy car windows. Silly, I know, for two mid-40 year olds to act, but liberating nonetheless. I will be married for a second time and I keep telling myself that this is how life goes. I do have the capacity to love again, I feel, even if that love manifests itself quite differently. My heart doesn’t leap with adoration this time around but instead warms with appreciation. We move into a new house in January and we’ll be sharing a Christmas tree next December. I’m not sure if our Christmas tree should hover above this present. I’m not sure if Jenny has a place there.
My favorite album from our time together is not from our wedding or from our honeymoon. We took a day trip once to a small lake front town completely on a whim. We swam in the lake, barbecued on a makeshift fire, and napped on a hammock. I look at those pictures now and I marvel at how young she looked. I have a favorite picture. Jenny is sitting on the edge of the hammock with her arms outstretched. I can feel her chestnut eyes staring back at me with her long arms seeming to reach out to hug me. Her favorite maroon sweater dotted with bits of fallen leaves.
I take a sip of wine and let it settle on the front of my tongue just as Jenny and I had learned all those years ago at that wine tasting class. I swallow and its bitterness touches my toes.
“Should I open your present to me, Jenny?”
I read the label on the present - To: My Wonderful Husband, From: Jenny!
A solitary tear splashes on the green paper with a whispered splish.
I clumsily tie the bow again and place it back under the tree. Not this Christmas. Not this Christmas.
Stumble it!
Tags: flash fiction, winner, Writing Contest