She walks into my office at half-past two in the afternoon, a white-red-and-green gift bag – adorned with Christmas ornaments and bursting with snowflakes of tissue paper – dangling from the tips of her fingers. Do I need to remind you it’s the middle of March?
“What’s that?” I ask.
She covers her laugh with her free hand. “I found this and have been meaning to bring it for a while.” We both look to the bag as she raises it to eye-level. “Obviously,” she adds.
“It’s for me?”
“Yeah, I tucked it away. Apparently too well. And so when I found it, I added one more thing and so, here you go!” She sets it on my kidney-shaped table, we chat for a while about the day and next year. Just before the bell rings at three, she leaves and I forget about the present until I am packing up to leave myself.
I carry it out with the rest of my stuff, set it on the backseat, and reached my hand inside.
Body butter and bath gel? Nice! Mango? Amazing!
A pad of sticky notes, proclaiming “Smart Thinkin’.”
A candle in a mason jar. Oh, I love the little things she thinks to put together. Like a spa, a special moment, some self-care, always in the bags she brings.
A short white mug, which I know I’ll enjoy this weekend on my front porch even before I turn it around and see that it says, “This girl loves sleep.”
And what’s this? One more?
A notebook. My favorite dandelion yellow. It’s thick pages offer up just the slightest resistance as I crack the spine and flip through the black spaces, imagining the ideas that could fill it up. On the cover, an old typewriter and one sentence, “Remember, ideas become things.”
Last time, it was a Peach Tranquility from Starbucks.
Before that, it was a piece of flare to add to my lanyard: “Read Local.”
It feels good to be seen. To be noticed. To be known.