Unwrapping
In a few days, my family and I will open a storage closet in our basement and begin to pull out a few boxes stored high on the top shelf. Not having been opened in a year, they may be a little dusty, but these boxes will be carried upstairs to the living room, gently laid out on the floor, and one by one, we will excitedly open them. In this ritual we perform every twelve months, we will reveal the contents, both acting like it is the first time we have seen them, while simultaneously basking in the warmth of knowing everything we unpack.
In the first box, there is a tin train set that belonged to my husband’s grandfather. It has a handful of large metal tracks, a railroad sign or two, and just a few painted metal cars. Sometimes we set it up and sometimes we don’t. It reminds me of my own father setting up an old metal train set under his tree every year. He and my brother would work for hours to get it moving. They would clean the tracks knowing that if they got it just right, the excitement from the children as it finally got going and started smoking would be well worth the effort. I remember the pride and contentment on my dad’s face as the train circled the brightly lit tree.
The second box is a potpourri made of objects from different people, places, and times. We find white crocheted bells that were intricately hand stitched by my great aunt. She made them right up until the time when her hands were too tired. We dig for the cookie tins that will hold treats made only once a year with recipes that generations of family members have made. These recipes never change, and we certainly don’t try to make healthier versions. The biscotti and pizzelles are absolute heaven, just the way they always have been. We bring out recipe cards written in my grandmother’s handwriting layered with bits of errant baking ingredients.
And, in our most important box of all, the ornaments. Every year, I take my place on the couch, and pull them out one by one, unwrapping the protective tissue paper. We are comforted by my daughter’s handmade pasta wreaths and construction paper candy canes. I silently chuckle to myself as I remember a cotton ball and a toilet paper roll that I made into a Santa for my parents over 40 years ago. Every year when I go to my mom’s house, I make sure that Toilet Paper Santa is always in his place on the front of their tree. My husband and I exchange a knowing glance when we open the yellow glass heart from the year when we had lost our home and jobs. My daughter smiles when we come upon a gray and white glass dolphin. The memory of a beach visit and her love of animals combined into one precious memento. An ornament given as a wedding gift, an old red and white ball from a dear friend that has passed on, a wooden Santa from a friend that moved away.
Opening each box, unwrapping each object, to hold it and talk about it, is an important ritual at the end of every year because it reminds me of the people, events, and places that have shaped our life as a family and our lives as individuals. I reflect on a lifetime, lifetimes, the carefree times, the difficult times, and all the other times. This annual act invites me to feel love and gratitude for life, and reminds me that it is, at its core, a gift.