Two gifts arrived in my mailbox on my nineteenth birthday. One was from Bob, a childhood friend. The other was from Dan, a friend from high school.
Which box should I open first?
The first one was from Dan. He was stationed in California at the time. We used to talk for hours when he came home on leave. He always made me laugh.
From the box, I pulled out a yellow T-shirt. It was from a city in California. Next, there was a wooden plaque for the wall.
I wondered how Bob’s gift would compare. Bob lived in Massachusetts. I was in Florida at the time. Bob and I talked on the phone every day for a few months. We met when I was in elementary school.
I carefully opened Bob’s gift. I remember lifting the Styrofoam square out of the box. In it was an intricate, small music box in the shape of a baby grand piano.
Bob knew this would be special because I play the piano. Then, I wound up the piano. “We’ve Only Just Begun” by the Carpenters was playing from the small piano. I held it in my hands and cried. Bob’s gift was so sentimental. It was thought out. It was a small piano, and it was special. He knew I would like it.
It’s interesting how those two gifts became a metaphor for our relationships. Bob knew me and offered a gift chosen specifically for me, but Dan picked something generic.
That August, guess where I moved?
I moved to Massachusetts and never heard from Dan again.
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