The Perfect Gift

As I was unwrapping gifts with my extended family on Christmas, my grandmother announced to the room that she had a gift for my grandfather, something he had been requesting for many years. My grandparents had celebrated their 60th anniversary only days before, and this intensified the alacrity with which I always anticipate any opportunity to peek at the inside jokes, memories, and significant events that cultivated and sustained their decades-long marriage.

The small box was adorned with glossy paper and thick ribbon, and my grandfather caught my grandmother’s infectious smile when he felt the weight of it. I briefly panicked when he tossed the box into the air and caught it again, but he was already in on the joke and knew not to worry about the fragility of the box’s contents.

When he had removed the wrapping and opened the lid, his smile stretched into a wide grin, and he tipped the box forward so that we could all see what it held: it was empty. My siblings and I, who often tried to trick each other on Christmas with misleading packaging and extraneous contents, began to wonder just what my grandmother was up to, but my grandfather happily confirmed what he had received: “An empty box!”

“Every year,” explained my grandmother, “when I ask your grandfather what he wants for Christmas, he says he doesn’t want anything: just an empty box. So, this year, I decided to give him what he wants!” My grandfather has reached the age at which laughing is laborious for him, so it is a special privilege to provoke him to the authentic type of laughter that is difficult to stop. He had been laughing during her explanation, and the rest of the family joined him when we understood.

My grandmother’s gift did for my grandfather what we all anxiously try to do for each other with money and things: to manifest our mutual affections and acknowledge the honor of knowing each other. It was the perfect gift.