Parting Gifts

It was one of those rare occasions when the air conditioning was on.

It was the last occasion when we were all there.

My great-grandmother's house was built by my great-grandfather. Legend goes he did a lot of the bricklaying himself back in '38. He'd done his time in the Navy during the first big war, so he sat that next one out.

Like so many other old Southern homes, this one had a living room and a den. Everybody always watched TV and visited in the den; the living room was for fancier furniture and holidays. The dining room was part of that parlor, and held that side of the house's only air conditioner. It was an old Sears window unit that managed to stave off unseasonable heat. Some Christmases, it was actually needed.

This gathering was a birthday, though. My great grandmother and I were born a day apart in early October, and it was tradition that we'd celebrate on the Sunday closest to our shared dates.

Nothing in that house had changed for decades. The air conditioner was a concession made at the insistence of family; sometime in the late seventies, the unit was gifted to my great-grandparents.

On this last gathering of the entire family, my grandmother gave me an unexpected gift.

I tore away the Sunday comics section (I waved away apologies for not using actual wrapping paper) to reveal a sleek black Cobra Nightraven.

On that day, I had no way of knowing she didn't wrap the gift because she was too tired.

On that day, I had no way of knowing that she'd be gone about fourteen days later.

That sleek black jet assumed a place of reverence in my room, in every room since. It never suffered the same abuses, it never fought in those imaginary battles that other G.I. Joe figures endured.

What relative do I want to ban from Thanksgiving? Can we claim the Reaper as a handsy step-uncle from out of state? If so, that's the one I'd vote off the island, he's the weakest link, let's enjoy our time without him.

But he is inevitable.

My mother and I are the only ones left from that Sunday so long ago, and I wish I had a gift from her to sit on the shelf next to that cherished toy from yesteryear.

That stupid jet from Hasbro remains the last thing given to me by a woman we still mourn every holiday season.

In the meantime, I'll treat each holiday like it's our last.