winkgirl4's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Savoring the small things. Savoring the Small ThingsAnyway, around Christmas, this friend and I were talking about what we were getting for our loved ones and what we, ourselves, were hoping to receive in return. He wanted a big ol� plasma TV, so he had a beautiful armoire built for his wife and then he bought her a new house. I told him that my present to Christian was to fly out to L.A. and to spend Christmas and New Years with him and that all I wanted was a simple, hand-held can opener in return. He just smiled and added, eagerly, �I�ll get you a can opener. I know a really good kind to get you.� And before I could stop myself I yelled, �No. You. You� You can�t get me a can opener.� The realization of my comment only became clear to me as I was actually saying the words out loud. �No. If you got me a can opener, it would just break my heart. You can be my friend but you aren�t allowed to get me a can opener.� As silly as it might have sounded, I had to make as much sense of it as I could and explain. I told him that, as pathetic as it might be, I was testing Christian. I was testing him in the same way that I had tested my ex husband and boyfriends before that and that, after years of asking for that simple hand-held can opener, I had never once received one. He looked at me the way any guy would have looked at a girl being silly and childish. I tried, unsuccessfully, to explain that it symbolized their understanding that I was really very easy to please and that it was the small things that mattered to me. I told him how that can opener meant �love� to me and that it meant that they would love me enough to understand me, but I still got the look. I got the look and I knew that I deserved it. When I returned from my Christmas vacation, we talked about our holiday trappings: parties, people, gifts. He told me about the money she gave him to go buy what he wanted and about the TV, that he got for himself, that wasn�t plasma and that wouldn�t fit in the armoire. I told him of nights on the beach, going to the theater, being in love and of the CD Christian made for me of him reading poetry (something I dearly love). We talked about my plans to return to L.A., but for good this time. We talked about his business and we talked about his love for his wife and his fear of failing in his marriage. I waited for him to ask but we never talked about the can opener. Work got busy, for both of us, and time slipped by so we didn�t get to do a whole lot of talking for several weeks. But, last night he dropped by on his way home. We talked. We laughed. We confided. We talked about my move to L.A. and how eager I was to go. He made his usual self- deprecating comments and jabbed me with guilt about being the only person he didn�t have to pay to be his friend. When he got up to go he noticed a vase of flowers on the table. He made a gesture towards them and asked, �So, is that what Christian got you for Valentines Day?� I smiled and said, �No. I got those from my children (via my ex husband) and the rose is from my sister.� �So, is that all you got for Valentines Day,� he asked. �No,� I said, wondering if I should say any more. But I did, so I continued, �I also got a can opener.� I�ve thought all morning and I still don�t have the words to describe the look on his face. My attempts to read it were interrupted when he said, �So, this is it? This is the real thing?� Then there was a pause and more of that look that seemed like a sad kind of happiness. It was followed by a smile and him saying, �I am really glad for you. You really deserved that can opener. I know how much you wanted it.� And I did want it. And I cried when I got it. And I cried for being silly and childish. And I cried for wanting some kind of proof that I would know love when I held it in my hand. And I cried even more when the note attached to that can opener told me that Christian understood me- me and my silly, childish, testing self. �But at the same time, I felt for my friend. I felt for the can opener he didn�t get. I felt for the armoires that he has built and the houses that he buys and the answers I don�t have besides, �Climb over the pillows, damn it. If you love her (and he does) stop being so damned childish and silly and climb over the god damned pillows.� Because, after all, it really is the small things that touch us. 2:50 p.m. - 2003-02-19 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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