stocking in his lap, and he would smile uncertainly up at me when I encouraged him to reach inside. This year would be different: his face would transform from halfhearted indulgence, to wonder, to real excitement when he discovered the concert tickets.
“You’ll never guess what I got you this year,” I told him. Smiling, he continued to knead my feet like bread dough.
“Just try,” I persisted. “I dare you.” I was so caught up in my own excitement that at first I didn’t even notice his hands stop moving and his expression turn anxious. When I finally noticed his furrowed brow, I asked him what was wrong.
“I’m worried you’ll be disappointed with what I got you.” He glanced down at his watch, as if contemplating the possibility of a late-night sprint to the mall. “I’m afraid I didn’t get you enough presents.”
“That’s it! That right there! Do you feel it?”
He looked quizzically at me.
“Feel it? That restlessness in your gut—that frantic impulse to dash to the store, to buy presents you’re not sure you can afford or your loved ones will even want? That niggling fear of disappointing those you love, of being disappointed yourself?”
He nodded.
“
Th
at
is the Christmas spirit.”
AS MUCH AS I loved them, I could no longer deny that suffering was often wrapped up in the presents I gave or received: disappointment with the wrong gift, resentment for the wrong reaction, shame for forgetting an occasion or neglecting to send a thank-you card, the persistent loneliness of feeling overlooked or misunderstood. As we sat together in silence in the dim glow of the Christmas lights, I recalled our most recent Valentine’s Day. Ismail had pushed the door open with his foot and walked in cradling a dozen red roses, bundled in candy apple red crepe paper and tied up with a pink satin bow. He handed me a small black box which I opened to find the most exquisite chocolates I’d ever seen: ebony hearts wrapped in a web of pink filaments, dense chocolate squares topped with sea salt like cut glass, a pyramid of black chocolate with a pure white tip that drizzled espresso cream over my tongue. I was amazed; for Ismail to offer such traditional Valentine’s gifts, I knew, was as much an act of surrender as putting his forehead to the ground in prayer. I knew how much he dreaded this day, when American men circled grocery-store flower displays like sharks or grabbed heart-shaped chocolate samplers from the shelves of drug stores in a distracted rush. So many previous Valentine’s Days had ended in tears and anger, when he had refused to participate in rituals he was certain were cooked up by the marketing teams of chocolate and flower conglomerates.
The moment I saw the gifts he carried, I was overcome with guilt.
“I didn’t get you anything for Valentine’s Day this year,” I blurted. Even as I spoke the words, I cringed at how thoughtless they sounded, knowing how hurt and angry I had been when the tables were turned.
I had never done this before. It wasn’t that I had forgotten or that I was trying to make him pay for previous oversights. Twice, in fact, I had gone shopping for him. I’d wandered through sports stores and men’s departments, fingered the collar of men’s sweaters, sprayed men’s cologne in a fine mist on my wrist, loosened the caps on organic shaving creams to sniff them. Argyle socks, belts, pajamas, briefs and boxers—I’d considered them all.
But then, standing before photos of preening men with glistening cleavage wearing boxers or bulging briefs, I thought of the twenty-year-old T-shirts and plain white underwear stacked in Ismail’s dresser drawers. I recalled the cologne and shaving cream bottles lined up neatly below his sink—untouched presents from previous holidays—as well as the nearly identical shirts and sweaters hanging in his closet, all purchased on occasions like this. In a burst of inspiration, I knew what would mean the most to him: for
“You’ll never guess what I got you this year,” I told him. Smiling, he continued to knead my feet like bread dough.
“Just try,” I persisted. “I dare you.” I was so caught up in my own excitement that at first I didn’t even notice his hands stop moving and his expression turn anxious. When I finally noticed his furrowed brow, I asked him what was wrong.
“I’m worried you’ll be disappointed with what I got you.” He glanced down at his watch, as if contemplating the possibility of a late-night sprint to the mall. “I’m afraid I didn’t get you enough presents.”
“That’s it! That right there! Do you feel it?”
He looked quizzically at me.
“Feel it? That restlessness in your gut—that frantic impulse to dash to the store, to buy presents you’re not sure you can afford or your loved ones will even want? That niggling fear of disappointing those you love, of being disappointed yourself?”
He nodded.
“
Th
at
is the Christmas spirit.”
AS MUCH AS I loved them, I could no longer deny that suffering was often wrapped up in the presents I gave or received: disappointment with the wrong gift, resentment for the wrong reaction, shame for forgetting an occasion or neglecting to send a thank-you card, the persistent loneliness of feeling overlooked or misunderstood. As we sat together in silence in the dim glow of the Christmas lights, I recalled our most recent Valentine’s Day. Ismail had pushed the door open with his foot and walked in cradling a dozen red roses, bundled in candy apple red crepe paper and tied up with a pink satin bow. He handed me a small black box which I opened to find the most exquisite chocolates I’d ever seen: ebony hearts wrapped in a web of pink filaments, dense chocolate squares topped with sea salt like cut glass, a pyramid of black chocolate with a pure white tip that drizzled espresso cream over my tongue. I was amazed; for Ismail to offer such traditional Valentine’s gifts, I knew, was as much an act of surrender as putting his forehead to the ground in prayer. I knew how much he dreaded this day, when American men circled grocery-store flower displays like sharks or grabbed heart-shaped chocolate samplers from the shelves of drug stores in a distracted rush. So many previous Valentine’s Days had ended in tears and anger, when he had refused to participate in rituals he was certain were cooked up by the marketing teams of chocolate and flower conglomerates.
The moment I saw the gifts he carried, I was overcome with guilt.
“I didn’t get you anything for Valentine’s Day this year,” I blurted. Even as I spoke the words, I cringed at how thoughtless they sounded, knowing how hurt and angry I had been when the tables were turned.
I had never done this before. It wasn’t that I had forgotten or that I was trying to make him pay for previous oversights. Twice, in fact, I had gone shopping for him. I’d wandered through sports stores and men’s departments, fingered the collar of men’s sweaters, sprayed men’s cologne in a fine mist on my wrist, loosened the caps on organic shaving creams to sniff them. Argyle socks, belts, pajamas, briefs and boxers—I’d considered them all.
But then, standing before photos of preening men with glistening cleavage wearing boxers or bulging briefs, I thought of the twenty-year-old T-shirts and plain white underwear stacked in Ismail’s dresser drawers. I recalled the cologne and shaving cream bottles lined up neatly below his sink—untouched presents from previous holidays—as well as the nearly identical shirts and sweaters hanging in his closet, all purchased on occasions like this. In a burst of inspiration, I knew what would mean the most to him: for
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