#192

the gifts from my mother are always the strangest. every once in awhile on a foggy day in june a box will be sitting expectantly on my doorstep, with HAPPY BIRTHDAY or CONGRATULATIONS or some other such nonsense written on the side in colored sharpie.
they never come on my birthday, and i can't remember the last time i did something worthy of a "congrats", much less the full word, spelled correctly or otherwise.
whatever's inside is always wrapped in paper from who-knows-where with the ugliest or strangest patterns available.
it was a plant once, still in the pot. a variety pack of chapsticks from somewhere in asia. moccassins, which would have been cool had they been colored, or hey, made for a woman and not a man.
obligingly, i always send a thank you note, explaining my joy at finding a new package. she doesn't like phone calls. if nothing else, i've learned the joy of giving. and not to open a new bottle of wine before internet shopping.