Love
It is a gift.
Not the kind you are born with,
Like a way with words or a knack for sports or a sense of humor.
Nor is it wrapped up in fancy paper and tied with a shimmering bow,
Delivered to your doorstep with a great fanfare of balloons
And minstrels, all singing your praises.
It’s a gift you have to look for,
But it’s hidden in plain view.
What it really is, is a set of nested boxes,
Like little Russian dolls with their delicate, hand-painted faces;
And each smile, each laugh—
Each shared kiss on a cool spring night—
Each of these is a new layer.
The box is fluid, morphing with each permutation.
Some days the layers come off thin, quick,
Savory, like baklava.
Other days they tear you up like onions.
Then one day, exhaustion sets in and
The feathered demon of doubt swoops down,
Carrying you to the imaginary center of your gift.
You fear that there will be nothing there,
That it was all just a cruel joke,
As you stare down miserably at something too tiny,
Too absurd,
To possibly contain anything at all.
Even when you reach this point,
You’d never walk away.
Some feral desire drives you to
Grasp the edges of this “final” box and pull—
Pull as hard as you can—
Only to reveal another box within,
As full of surprises as the very first.
This maddening cycle,
This is the real gift.
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