The Gift

Third skin, in unison

Photo by Akira Hojo on Unsplash

My palms aren’t sweaty. The rest of me is shaking though. Do I wait for you to open this box? I want to hoard my joy. Yes a bit. But a gift isn’t just for one person. Of course I think of ripping through the tape uninvited. I’ll tell you what happened afterwards. Diving my hands inside to discover this new country. Let the moment swish round in my mouth before swallowing. Relish my private happiness.

Don’t think me ungrateful.

I think I should wait. I think you should be here. But this third skin is right in front of me! I will have touched what you have touched. I know. I know that what sits here, beside me, on top of me, inside my head, is really just a box. With things. There’s something here. You have picked such a large box. And sent a smaller one too. I know it isn’t you. I know that your skin cells may have tagged along the journey and what I want is you to be here too. I know I can’t tell your microscopic evidence from the cardboard. I want to be able to though.

But it’s much more than the tape and stickers with destinations written on them. My name. Or sort of. The parcel people got it wrong. That’s okay: I tell you it made it to the right house. The box grows large enough to hold you inside. The box takes on the rhythm of your breath. The box is a surprise that only wants to burst on the stage so that all…