I woke this morning to the sight of an origami bird perched on a silver wrapping paper lake. The lights twinkled from the tree above reflected in silver and white on my present. The cool pre-dawn breeze was perfect and a hungry mosquito swiftly meets her demise as I interrupt her breakfast with a slap. The sky glows with streaks of pink and vermillion as the sun breeches the horizon and promises a crisp, clear hot Christmas Day.
The wrapping is far from perfect—his formidable skills lie elsewhere— the tape is askew in places and the paper bulges; the origami bird, however, is perfect. It sits, taped to the upper corner of my present like a tiny sparrow ready to alight on my hand if I let it and on the opposite corner he has carefully written my name. I have never seen my name in calligraphy before and I smile.
I wasn’t expecting a present, but now there it sits lovingly looking at me from under the tree. I don’t want to open it, he has taken so much care with it, the bird, the calligraphy, the wrapping paper. The wings of my bird beckon and they read “Open Me” and so, like Alice, I do. I carefully smooth each fold and read what he has written inside, tears well in my eyes; I don’t need to know what is in the silver box.
This is Christmas and it has been wonderful.
Peace, love and joy to you.