Super-Sized Series

 Surprise!

 
 

The BIG Box By Joan Leotta

By age eight, I already had learned one of life’s hard truths. Christmas gifts for little brothers come in BIG boxes. Big sisters receive only medium and small boxes whether from Santa or Mom and Dad. To be honest, I never really suffered in the gift category. There was abundance and well, I loved the puppets, crayons, cooking sets, books, and mountains of stuffed animals that I received. I had no interest in the fire engines, ride-on toys and forts revealed when my little brother’s BIG boxes were opened. 
I admit that silly though it may seem, when I spied the HUGE boxes under the tree for my brother was the nagging suspicion that a bigger box equaled more love. The old maxim that good things come in small packages. did not ring true for me.

I thought about putting a new bicycle on my list, just so I could qualify for a big box, despite the fact that my bike was just fine. I was the same height I had been the year before—almost. I didn't. 
Despite staying up very late on Christmas Eve, I awakened before dawn, put on slippers and robe and crept downstairs. The Christmas tree lights were on and under it were our stockings and boxes, "from Santa."  There were many, many boxes, some big, some small—and one GREAT BIG ENORMOUS Box. I sighed.

Quietly, I perused the pile for items with my name attached. I piled my gifts by my stocking and sat down next to them to wait for my parents and Grandma to come downstairs. I took a candy cane cookie from a plate by the tree, arranged my gaily wrapped boxes spread around me, and began to munch on a cookie and read my new book, a gift from a cousin, while I waited. As I read, I heard my brother, Mom, Dad, Grandma and my baby brother come down the stairs. Mom helped my brother open his boxes. I exclaimed happily over my Magic Baking oven and diary. Santa had been good to me.

Grandma and Mom began to clean up the wrapping paper. Then Mom noticed—the BIGGEST box was still wrapped.

"Whose is this?" she asked.

I looked up. "Mom, you’d better help little brother open that one too."

Mom stood up, read the tag and looked at me. "It’s for you.”

I walked over to the box. It was as high as I was tall, definitely the BIGGEST box under the tree this year and possible, ever! And my name was clearly printed on the tag: "Joanie." Santa and all of his helpers clearly had recognized my need for a BIG BOX. The box was a present in and of itself.

My hands were trembling as I ripped paper and then tugged at the box flaps. I reached in and tossed out the shredded paper “fill” in fistfuls. Deep down lay a large toy lion—silky and soft-- with a golden mane. The imprisoned lion was not huge. The box was and filling were about three times his size. I released him from this cardboard incarceration and hugged him tight. A moment later, I christened this amazing creature, "Goldie" and he promptly became the king of my stuffed animal jungle.

It's been a long time since the biggest box under the tree was the one I wanted. After all, jewelry comes in small boxes. But I've never forgotten the real gift that Christmas, learning that often when we think no one notices us, that no one is aware of our inner desires for a BIG box or whatever else, someone often does. As a parent, I've tried to always put this lesson into practice, carefully observing my dear daughter and son  so Santa could fulfill even their “hidden” wishes.

Previously Published in Sassee

Gifting by Luanne Castle, Arizona

Emily flopped onto the ratty playroom couch to glance through the photographs she had taken for art class. One of her in-the-future fantasies was to have her photographs on the cover of National Geographic. Poogie might spend all his time glued to his games, but his sister was going to be somebody. She reached for her camera behind the throw pillow, but nothing was back there. Emily pulled out the back cushions and the bottom cushions, thinking the camera had fallen between them. But she found nothing.

Prickles nipped at her consciousness. Poogie didn’t wear jackets in winter because they would disappear, but she wasn’t used to losing things. She thought of her beaded bustier from dance class and how she was sure she left it hanging on the door hook in her room. She hadn’t seen it in weeks. Or her new SKKN by Kim eye shadow palette. Was Poogie messing with her? Not likely since he mostly ignored real life.

Emily flipped through her older photos on the computer, seeing where she had made little mistakes she could now recognize. Then she came upon a series she had done of the murder of crows that frequented the neighborhood. In one image, a crow pinched a penny in its beak as it lifted off the porch. Emily’s teacher had explained that the crow didn’t view the act as stealing because it would leave the coin elsewhere as a thank you for food or help received. Emily didn’t believe that could be true and googled it during computer class, finding crow gifting to be shockingly true.

Mrs. Carroll poked her head in. “Didn’t you hear the phone ring?” Emily stared, still contemplating the pattern of crows stealing and gifting. “That was Mrs. Martinez. She asked if we knew anything about a teapot-shaped serving tray. Our dear Misty is a thief!”

Every Friday Misty, her greasy hair drooping, arrived in her rusted Kia Rio, bringing gifts. A teapot-shaped serving tray. A teak trinket box. Mrs. Carroll accepted each offering with hugs and left Misty with her skinny legs and big feet to the vacuum and scrubbing cleanser.

Not that the Carrolls needed another serving tray or trinket box, but it’s the thought that counts, Mr. and Mrs. Carroll told each other. Poogie and Emily, their teens, crossed their eyes and drew air circles near their ears whenever they discovered a new gift from Misty. Except, of course, when she brought a new video game that Poogie didn’t own. Emily raised her eyebrows, but her brother’s smug smile shut her down.

Now Emily didn’t like the angry look on her mother’s face. She flinched at Mrs. Carroll’s next words. “The jig is up. No wonder Misty is always bringing us gifts. She steals them from other employers.”

Emily thought of Misty’s thin, intense face, her beaked profile. “Don’t think of it as stealing, Mom. Misty’s just very grateful.”

Four 50-word stories by Shoshauna Shy, Wisconsin

CRUSHED AGAIN
Victory! An empty chair by the table of my latest coffeehouse crush this quiet morning—and no wedding band either!
Unload book bag, coat, stir my latte. Look his way, smile, ask for the sugar canister.
Oh, no...a waft of fabric softener envelops me as he obliges.
Married already.  
 previously published by 50-Word Stories

DATING
Finally—a date! New dress: velour, hip-hugging, swale at the breast. Locket he gave me on our anniversary. Hair frosted, his favorite style. He will watch me take my seat with newfound admiration, compelled to cry, "Don't leave! I love you!"
Our first date all year—our court date.

previously published by 50 Give or Take

BINGO            
All he had left to do was book a one-way flight to Portland, then shave his head at the airport. He folded the winning lottery ticket into his pocket.
“Cleveland conference again?” asked his wife when she saw the suitcase.
He grabbed it and kissed her. "What a good guess."

previously published by 50 Give or Take

I DON’T WANT KIDS,
SHE TOLD ME

Took me three winters to finally get over you.
And there you are—in line at 40 Flavors Lickity-Split. I’d know that red braid anywhere.
Someone shifts their weight, and a cherub comes into view. He’s riding your hip.
I’m a cardboard bucket, my insides scraped out with a spoon.

previously published by 50-Word Stories

 

LITTLE SURPRISES by Lori Levy, California

Today I see red flowers dancing by the dusty roadside,
a brown bird hopping on a garbage can lid—
just as joyful as the one in the tree.  Funny,
because on the same path yesterday,
I saw only the dust, the garbage, and the fog.

 

Twin Delight by Abha Das Sarma, India

When asked what I want
as is the common practice in India,
'twin girls' was my favorite reply-
an improbable fantasy
with no family history and
no medication to enhance the possibility.

Imagine my surprise
at doctor's growing suspicion
with my belly size-
heartbeats on both the sides!

Those years with no scan,
it continued to be a fantasy
until the eight month-
a special x-ray and
the technician's confirming,
'you are going to have twins'.

To date, no other words
have brought me a bigger surprise-
no girls though but identical boys!

In the hospital, one carried a thread
who was the first to see the world
by five minutes. Pranks grew with them,
exchanging clothes and fooling the friends.
None got it ever right to my immense delight.

At schools professors erred
who was in the class and who wandered-
the embassies interchanged the visas,
the ultimate yet to come with one married
and the certificate in other's hand.

The surprises continue to this date
when the memories of childhood begin to fade.

First published in a slightly different form in Ekphrastic Review


The Gift by Alarie Tennille, Kansas

 No one would deny
the Tiny Tot stapler was cute,
the ideal size for tucking 
in a purse or tote,
useful for a teacher grading papers.
But the look on Mom’s face,
when she opened 
the jewelry-sized box 
and hurled the stapler at Dad
was what held that Christmas 
fast in family memory.

First published in Alarie’s poetry collection, Running Counterclockwise from Kelsay Books

On Mindfulness by Ethan Goffman, Maryland

I’m never present in the present
though to do so would be pleasant.
My mind’s meandering in the past
or in the future trav’ling fast.

When I should be here, I’m there,
My thoughts are flashing everywhere.
I’m of no mind to be mindful,
My mind’s merely a mad minefield.

Voices from the past will taunt me,
nightmare future always haunt me.
I can’t be present in the present,
Would it really be so pleasant?


nightfall? daybreak? by Wilda Morris, Illinois
“The sun is downing.”  Lucas Fernandez, age 3
 
day falls
in silver streaks
from silky sky
gift of light
 
night breaks
through the horizon
chasing light
downing the sun
gift of darkness
 

Extra Large 200th Birthday by Joe Cottonwood, California

Let’s gather my children, 
their partners, their offspring— 
shades of hair, skin, eyes, a palette of DNA 
mixing cultures and continents.

Let’s celebrate first by repairing the deck, 
a carpenter’s holiday
prying, cutting, screwing until suddenly 
I trip on the crowbar and 
I’m falling in front of everybody 
fortunately sideways onto soft grass. 
Thunk. 
I’m fine, slightly bruised, 
dug a divot in the lawn and
everyone now reminded that 70 is old age,
judgement possibly addled. 
They say I took fetal position on the way down, 
good instinct, a carpenter’s regression. 

Family tradition: a pie not a cake. 
Gift of a sweater vest, size Extra Large.
I’m a man of medium build, but always 
in their eyes Extra Large.

One candle, only one
because 70 would melt the pie 
and counting physical body years 
misses the point. We are spirit 
expanding as ripples in a pond 
beyond the flesh. Add up our ages. 
My years plus children plus grandchildren
total exactly 200 years old this day.
I’m spreading, not dying.
Happy birthday to us.

First appeared in Poetry Breakfast

 
Unexpected Gifts by Elaine Sorrentino, Massachusetts

Compassion in the eyes of the medical 
receptionist as she relinquishes 
my envelope of ticking time bombs, 
wishing me good luck in my journey; 

my husband's vow to keep the house clean, 
no need to worry when visitors 
come calling after surgery ... 
as if dust bunnies were my real worry; 

a thank-you call from my oncologist 
grateful for the letter disclosing 
non-medical components of my life 
to explain my decision-making; 

the library patron who volunteered 
to drive me to infusions; 
purple polka-dotted we love you 
PajamaGram from cousins; 

delight at being rejected for chemo 
so I could watch my 74-year-old mother 
fawn like a teenager over Josh Groban 
at Boston Garden; 

Barbara, the dancing chemo nurse 
who shushed me mid-shimmy, finger 
to her lips, warning 
Don’t reveal my secret; 

co-workers demanding 
an occupation to help in the healing, 
not understanding their daily check-ins 
were all the salve I needed. 

first appeared in MacQueen's Quinterly


The Gift of Radio Silence, Roxbury, MA by Marianne Szlyk, Massachusetts

Brittle oak leaves, my thoughts
scatter in the east wind.
Shards of now-old songs play.
I cannot turn this radio off.

I walk down this steep hill,
skirt ice patches, wonder
who has lived on this street,
have I been here before.

Here you are not. Here you
will never be. I think
of people I knew
at the home near here
where I once worked.

I picture them as children
running as snow falls,
as stores close, as sweet horns
and laughter gush out
from their papas’s taverns.

I picture you as a child
running as snow falls,
as stores close, as sweet horns
and TV laughter flood

the apartments above
other stores, other streets
in New York City, not here.

And then I will pray
for the gift of
radio silence.


A Gift by Gary Grossman, Georgia

They home, like salmon to their
natal stream, seeking the comfort 
of the only nest they’ve known. 
Childhood neurons triggered by
beef bourguignon, baked ziti, 
and bedrooms that remain undenned.

At 70 resentment still can 
brush my cheeks red. Nerves quick to fire
with one more many-petaled request.
Even from one’s own muscled genes. 
Even when it’s all years past.

But, what a gift it is when children 
return home to snuggle in bed 
despite their thirty-something years 
and job tenure. 

Soon enough we’ll be cold ashes in an urn.

Verse Virtual