The Last Gift Under the Tree

My first memory is of being wrapped.

It’s understandable, I suppose. I mean, I am a Christmas present, after all.

I know what you’re thinking: How can a present remember anything? Or have any knowledge of what’s going on around it?

Good questions. Maybe it’s something about the idea, the notion, the concept of a gift. Maybe it’s simply the act of giving, the charity and generosity of spirit, that endows a gift with a certain… awareness of itself and its place, its purpose in the world.

Or maybe it’s just that I’m a weird gift. Who knows? Let’s move past it, okay?

The person wrapping me is an older man. He takes his time, does it right. I’m tucked into soft material, put in a box. He uses paper with a simple, classy design, shiny glass ornaments against a backdrop of evergreen boughs. He creases the paper along the edges and folds any excess under the wrap, so that everything ends up neat and tight.

In a little flap of extra paper taped to the outside, he writes “For Evelyn, With Undying Love from James.” I don’t know why he’s smiling as he writes this. Or why he has tears in his eyes.

To finish it off, he winds a ribbon of gold paper around me and ties it in a big bow.

I gotta admit, I look pretty good.

Then I go under the tree, right up in front, next to the creche of small figures forming the Nativity Scene, bathed in the soft glow of warm, clear lights from the boughs above me.

But things don’t stay that way. I guess I was put out pretty early in the season. More gifts show up, brought over by friends and family, delivered to the door through the mail. All of them go under the tree. I think James tried to keep me near the front. He must have wanted me to be the first present opened on Christmas. It doesn’t work out, however, and I’m moved, again and again, from place to place, by a bunch of different people. All too soon, I’m pushed to the very back, and end up by the outlet where the lights are plugged in, half covered by a fold of the tree skirt. Oh, well, I’m sure it won’t matter where I am when the time comes.

The Big Day arrives, and it’s time to open the presents. It’s utter chaos. There are people everywhere, kids and adults, reaching under the tree, shoving presents around, snatching them up, handing them out. Somehow, in the mad scramble, I get overlooked. Pushed and jostled and thrust farther to the back, and farther out of sight.

I keep waiting for James to show up and rescue me, to give me to Evelyn. I keep waiting to be unwrapped, opened up, revealed. I keep waiting to be given, to be received. To be fulfilled.

But it doesn’t happen.

Every single other gift is taken out and unwrapped, in a veritable explosion of bright-colored paper shreds and plastic packaging. Books and toys and video games and picture frames and kitchen gadgets and almost anything you can imagine, torn free of their confining containers and passed around, oohed and aahed over in appreciation.

But not me. I’m left there, forgotten, unable to do anything to call attention to myself. At this point I kinda wish James had used louder wrapping paper. I guess every present thinks it’s the most important one, the one that the recipient can’t possibly do without, and can’t imagine being forgotten, left to be the last gift under the tree. That’s if any other presents are aware of themselves, that is. Again, I could just be weird that way.

Gift-opening finished, the people drift away, getting on with the day, going off to enjoy a good meal and take pleasure in the company of their loved ones. They eat the food and talk and drink, ending up full and drowsy, sitting around bloated and content as time passes and it grows late. They get up to leave, eventually, alone or in pairs or small groups, exchanging farewells and compliments to the hosts and thanks for the presents. They gather their loot, put on their coats, and walk out the door.

I watch it all from under a fold of the tree skirt, in the back by the outlet, and wonder what’s going to happen to me. What becomes of a present that’s forgotten, a gift that isn’t given? I’m… afraid.

Someone comes by and cleans up all the discarded wrapping paper and other trash, stuffing it into big plastic bags and hauling it away. I look on fearfully, scared of ending up in that bag, of ending up who knows where. Of never being given to the person I was meant for. Never being unwrapped. Never being a real gift.

That’s the most terrifying thing for a present, after all. What is a gift if it never reaches the person it was intended for? Does it stop being a gift? Does it become something else? Does it have any meaning or purpose? Or is it just garbage, to be thrown away?

I hide under the tree skirt for days, waiting, worrying. Then it’s time to take the tree down. When the ornaments are put away and the lights unwound and the tree pulled out of its stand, I know my time is short. I’m about to have my questions answered, and I’m scared of what will happen next.

It’s James, the man who wrapped me in the first place, who pulls away the tree skirt and sees me. For a moment, we just stare at each other. Then he picks me up, a thoughtful frown on his face. It’s clear he remembers me, and he’s confused to find me there, still wrapped and unopened. He looks away, chews on his lip, tapping me against the fingers of his other hand. Like he’s trying to decide what to do. Maybe he really wanted to see me opened in front of all the family, as if I have some special significance. As if there was a certain time for me to be given and unwrapped and oohed and aahed over, and now the opportunity is past. Missed. Lost.

“Next year,” he says at last. “I’ll give it to her next year. I have time. I’m sure I have at least another year…”

He puts me in a closet, one of those little spaces under a stairway, created in a vain effort to utilize empty space. I’m set on a shelf, all the way in the back, where it’s already dusty. Probably thinks I won’t be found there, until he’s ready to give me to Evelyn. Somehow, I expect he’s at least partly right. Then he closes the door, and I’m left in the dark.

I have no idea how much time passes, but it’s a lot. Feels like forever, when all I can do is sit on a shelf in the dark, gathering dust and wondering what I am. I was really hoping to find that out on Christmas morning, and I can’t tell you how bummed I was when it didn’t happen. I suppose I subsist on the hope that eventually next Christmas will come around, that I’ll be taken out, dusted off, and put under the tree, right up in front next to the Nativity, to be the first present opened, to be oohed and aahed over at long last.

But nope. Again, no idea how long I sit there, but it’s got to be more than one year. I’m lucky they don’t have a rodent problem, or I probably would have been gnawed on at some point. At least one big spider comes along and makes a web between me and the wall. It’s a momma spider, too, and soon enough I have a whole mess of tiny spiders scuttling all over me. Ewww. Still have the willies even after they’re all gone.

So, it is with no small relief that I finally see the closet door open, light spilling past the old, musty coats and stacks of age-softened cardboard boxes, to reveal me in all my faded glory.

A woman I don’t recognize (in other words, not James, since he’s the only person I’d recognize) starts taking stuff out of the closet, looking it over and tossing it aside. Eventually she spots me, sitting there on the shelf in the back. She gets a curious look on her face, picks me up, brushes the dust and old webs off, and takes me out.

“Hon, take a look at this,” she says.

A man—again, not James—comes over and looks at me. “Huh. An old Christmas present. Guess somebody forgot about it.”

“I’ll say,” the woman says. “Looks like it’s been in there for ages. It’s nicely wrapped, though.”

Why, thank you. I certainly think so.

She lifts up the little flap of paper. “‘For Evelyn, With Undying Love from James’. Wow. Hon, I think this really meant something to someone. I wonder how they could have forgotten it…”

“Open it up. See what’s in it.”

NO! Don’t do that! I’m meant for Evelyn! If you open me, I won’t be a gift! I’ll be… I don’t even know what I’ll be. Failed. Useless. Meaningless.

“No, we can’t do that. It’s not meant for us.”

I’m starting to like this lady.

“Hmmm.” The woman carries me over to a table, sets me down. She turns to a laptop sitting nearby. Don’t ask me how I know what a laptop is. I don’t know. I’m just a gift. A weird gift, I suppose.

She taps away for a few minutes. “Here, look at this,” she says at last. “The last owner of this house was James Montgomery. He… oh, he died. Nearly ten years ago.” More tapping on the computer. “Wait, it says he’s survived by his wife, Evelyn. Hon, she’s still alive.” Even more tapping. “And she doesn’t live that far away.”

“Whoa, babe. You’re not suggesting—”

“It’ll only take a few hours. We can go tomorrow. We’ll make it an adventure. And it might mean so much to her.”

The man sighs, throws up his hands in practiced resignation. I take it this lady gets her way a lot. Which I’m certain is for the best.

She leaves me there on the table. I wait, as patiently as only an unopened gift can wait, through the long, dark night. I wonder if they’ll be able to find Evelyn. If it’ll be the right Evelyn. If she’ll take me, accept James’ last gift. Or if she’ll refuse for some reason, and I’ll never know what I am, what it’s like to be received, wanted, opened. Fulfilled.

In the morning, the woman picks me up, tucks me carefully into a bag, and carries me out of the house. We get in the car and set off. If I wasn’t an inanimate object, I’m sure I’d be bouncing in frenetic anticipation.

The drive seems to take forever. It’s hot and stuffy in the bag. I think I get a little car sick. Yeah, that’s weird. But I’m sure it’ll all be worth it, when we find Evelyn.

The man and the woman argue over the directions she’s getting from her phone. He seems to be convinced that he knows better than a computer program and a whole lot of satellites.

“Do you want to drive?” the woman asks at one point, exasperated.

“Yes,” he replies instantly.

“Well… you can’t,” she says, not looking at him.

I fight the urge to ask if we’re there yet. I’m not sure I even could. It would probably freak them out. A lot. So I don’t try to find out if a forgotten Christmas present has powers of speech. This is all weird enough as it is.

Finally, we pull into a driveway in front of a very small, very neat house. The lawn is well cared for, and the front windows have flower boxes full of brightly colored blossoms.

The woman picks up the bag, opens the door, and climbs out. The man gets out the other side, moving with obvious reluctance. They walk up to the door and the woman rings the bell.

A tense minute passes. Then the door swings open.

“Hello?” A little old woman stands in the doorway, peering out at her visitors uncertainly. She’s bent under the weight of her years, her face lined from a life of mingled joys and sorrows. But her eyes are bright and sharp, and she has a welcoming smile for these complete strangers who’ve showed up on her doorstep.

I don’t recognize her. But then, I never got a good look at anyone other than James. Oh, please let this be Evelyn.

“Evelyn Montgomery?” the woman holding me asks.

“Yes.”

“Hi, um, I’m Jill Taylor. This is my husband, Brad. We, um, we’re the couple that bought the house you used to live in.”

“Oh.” Evelyn glances between them, looking a little wary now. “Is there a problem?”

“Oh, no, nothing like that.” Jill pauses, clearly uncertain how to proceed. “It’s just, um, while we were cleaning up, we found,” she reaches into the bag and pulls me out, “this. It’s yours. Um, for you. From… from James.”

She holds me out toward Evelyn, who doesn’t do anything but stand there, her eyes locked on me. “From James? What do you mean? James… he’s been gone for… for a long time now.”

“Yes, but I think this got forgotten or something, some Christmas years ago.” She moves me closer to Evelyn, like that will somehow compel her to take me. “It’s for you.”

Still Evelyn hesitates, and I start to really worry. I can see her deciding that this is all too weird, these people showing up out of nowhere with a gift from her long-dead husband. I can see her shaking her head in denial, backing away, closing the door. I can see her rejecting me, leaving me a gift that’s not a gift anymore. Leaving me nothing.

Then, slowly, she holds out her hand, and takes me. There’s no more hesitation. She tears off the ribbon, rips open my wrapping paper, to reveal the plain cardboard box beneath. With a shuddering breath, she opens the box.

And I discover that I’m… a pair of very fuzzy socks, colored in vivid stripes of red and yellow.

Everyone just stares at me. I’ve got to admit, I feel their disappointment. I’m a bit disappointed myself. I was really expecting more.

Except something’s not quite right about this…

Carefully, Evelyn unfolds the socks. There, nestled in the soft fabric, I lie revealed. She holds me up, and I finally realize what I am: a watch. One of those old pocket watches, with a chain and everything. I’m well made, shiny brass with some fancy scrollwork etching. Very nice. And such a relief. I don’t like fuzzy socks much myself.

Her fingers trembling, Evelyn opens me. There, on the inside of the cover, words have been engraved.

“Dearest Evelyn, the time we had together was the greatest gift I’ve ever received. Love you forever, James.”

Finally. I’m a gift, given and received. I have purpose. Meaning. I am fulfilled.

I was the last gift under the tree.

Now, I’m the best gift James ever gave Evelyn.