I got your gift in the post. I sent you one too. I said thank you. You said, "I'm sorry."
It was the first time I remember getting a gift I didn't ask for, and the first time I remember having to ask for a gift. IT arrived 6 months late. Unless we're counting when you saoud you would get me one.
I got a few more of those -- sorries, but gifts all the same. I imagine I'll get a few more. They don't take up any space, which is nice, but they don't alleviate space either. And getting a bunch of sorries -- sorry, gifts at once feels different than getting gifts at the right time. And it takes up a lot of space. Or I have to take up a lot of space for them. Sometimes I've already made space in anticipation and when one arrives, it continues taking up no space in spite of the space I made. Or worse, it never arrives and I just have Made space Not untaken.
My bedroom is small and I share a flat, so it's nice to never receive something spacious, although I am often receiving empty gifts, and those are much heavier and take up the most space. Even worse, they tend to multiply. I've never sent an empty multiplying gift. I'm not sure who set that precedent.
One of my favourite stories is about a lower who's so slow to start, by the time he sees the woman he loves, the man he sweares he witnessed her love first never exicted. She must have forgotten. Or just something he dreamde up to excuse himself, obsessed with peering through cracks in the wall and finding holes in the law, and couldn't see the distance to his supposed lover. Or the other way around. The story takes a few reads to really grasp, but it's a masterpiece. I've only read it once. You read the second book.
It's our four day anniversary. You sent so many of those multiplying gifts and they were empty as usual. A few days ago I wanted to send you a knuckle sandwich. It's your favourite. You like it with mustard. But I was worried about mould in transit. I didn't want to pay for putting something on ice, and knuckles are only good hot. You'll have to get it in person. Maybe next year.
It's our one month anniversary. I thought about texting you a bomb. Or laying a few traps in the cupboards. I've been losing skin on my hands and I nearly burned myself on your letters, so I decided against it. And I'd rather not make a reason to say sorry. A gift will have to do. Mapyer pearls since they really go with anything. Hopefully when it arrives it won't remind you of pain. And when it's gone -- the pain, or the gift, or the sorry -- hopefully the made space isn't not untaken.
It's our two month anniversary. A chair was waiting for you that was reserved for my mother and, predictably, my mother took it. She's been calling me many times a week because she's nervous. My mother was never a coward. She loves me a lot. She loved me a lot, too. Or perhaps another man like me. I think she still does, either me or him, even if she won't be there like she promised. She has lots of little girls to take care of and she didn't have the guts to care for me or him as her son. She told me that almost four years ago. I didn't find her scary then. She sends her daughters gifts when they're sick. Not that it's her fault. But if she was there, maybe it wouldn't be. Regardless, I never got one. I never wanted to be her daughter.
It's our three month anniversary. Your birthday just passed. I'm sorry. You were 30 again.
It's our four month anniversary. I didn't get your gift. You said you're sorry. I didn't send you a gift. I'm sorry.
It's our fiftieth anniversary. You're waiting outside the courtyard, desperately poised to appear strong, so particular about your posture for the light to strike your silver hair. A warm silence softly billows between us. You sit in front of a tea set. It's coffee. It's developed a lovely coat for my plus pet rabbit named Bently. You brought me a marble pig to stuff with salt. You're sorry it took so long. I smile understandingly. Mother is far gone. I don't remember her. Whether she existed doesn't mean anything to me. You always were nervous about expressing yourselv, and as slow to start as ever.