Presents

Dear Reader,

I have always found receiving presents or indeed anything to do with presents very difficult emotionally.  The few presents my parents gave me were material things I did not want, but longed for, instead, less tangible  objects.  You know the sort of thing I mean, dear reader:  love, affection,
attention, laughter, and "approbation" as Jane Austen might say.


Presents

I don't want presents
tied and ribboned.
Encouragement doesn't wrap
well in green tissue,
praise in paisley boxes
or love in thick gold paper.
I don't want guilt
compressed into an envelope
with cheque.

A parcel of thoughtfulness,
a parcel of interest,
a parcel of embracing,
a parcel of safety, were
the presents I hoped for
under the festive tree.
The presents I hoped for
which were not to be.

             *           

Musing this week.....

I heard of a village in southern Italy where none of the people who  lived there had ever been to the sea.  They had decided that before they died they really wanted to see it and would, somehow find the money. It was the women who made this decision, the pensioners, and it was only them, the women who were to go.  A grandson told them to go on line where, it seems, for a good cause, people all over the world will donate money for whatever is wanted.  And they got the money. But the interesting thing about this tale for me was that quite one or two of the ladies, who had never in all their lives, been out of the village didn't want to go.  One of them said she thought the world a dangerous place and she would rather stay put.  This reminded me of Mr. Wodehouse in Jane Austen's "Emma" who, in his turn, liked to stay within a mile or so of his house on account of the dangers abroad.   I  must say I feel much the same as the Italian lady and Mr. Wodehouse.

Best wishes, Patricia