A Gift

I feel I owe a lot of my writing ability to my Dad and so this was a kind of thank you. It began as a story but I find the rhythm of poetry far too tempting. It has therefore come out as a hybrid.

My Dad gave me a box.
Not a big box. Not a small box. Just a box. You can imagine my surprise, my mouth all agape, my rolling eyes. “What am I supposed to do with this?!” I ask, incredulous, disappointed. “Use it” a reply, with a smile, quite sly. The old man’s gone senile; his mind’s not as agile, as it was when his hair was more curly. So I stamp off with my box, quite surly, and shove it under my bed. My box was soon forgotten, and the gift most rotten, was never thought of again. Now being twenty, with photos aplenty, thanks to facebook and abundance of snaps. Visually aided where memory fails I wonder down memory lane, and again and again (I swear I’m quite sane) I spot the disappointment of a gift. I’m having an argument, with a man twice my age; I remember the words and the heat. I’m standing a little taller than I should be for there is my crummy gift, planted firmly under my feet. My hands passionate in gesture, our faces quite blue, I’m planted to my soap box as if by super glue. Another photo, the beginnings of our farm, and there’s my box with me, I’m swinging under a tree, and it’s tucked safely under my arm. It’s spilling over with leaves and twigs and Cornish air and the things that take my mind from this room to there, and my box now holds a hundred days of sunshine and memories so fine I can’t help but smile at the recollection. Now I’m in school being praised for my creativity, my brain, my ability, to wonder where no one else’s thoughts dare go. There in the class sits my box, bold as brass, and only my thoughts escape its grasp. I guess it’s easier to avoid something once you know it’s there (although that hardly seems fair). Things get rough, for the world gets mean, and I’m in my box, I can’t even be seen. I’m safe in the walls that my Dad gave me, even if they’re brown and crinkly. I’m a teenager, doing all those things I shouldn’t, things I’d promised myself I wouldn’t. Each one a demon from my box, pandemonium ensues, but I had the opportunity to choose. Following the chaos, last to break free, a hopeful butterfly, I’ve learnt, I’ve grown, I’m me. Only now I can see that these were all gifts. Given lovingly and patiently and entirely free. Gifts that’ll aid me through the stormiest sea.
Gifts my Dad gave me.

Author's Note

Again this was an idea that came to me quite suddenly and so it was written up quite quickly and felt quite natural. I haven't yet edited it but as I said in my description it was sort of a gift. I'm a bit wary of over editing this one in case it losing its sincerity. At some point I will have to sit down and edit it more delicately than I would usually do.