The Gift

Vincent LaCroix dropped in today. He said he was in a New York state of mind so he traveled 700 miles to my door. I am numb. Nearly fifteen years later and he is still cool as a fan, sharp as a tack. He has something for me. A square black box wrapped with a simple green ribbon. I am afraid to open it. I fear being sixteen again. Head over heels and intoxicated. Drunk on a potency known only to those unafraid to love.

He cannot stay, but asks that I open the gift when he leaves. I dip in and out of corners in my mind. I am reeling on memories I believed were long since buried. The box contains my heart. In it lies everything I ever loved about life, myself and him. Timeworn notebook papers bound to one another are actually a short story we penned together years ago. There is an untitled compact disc, which I later learn is carefully comprised of every song that divulge the story of us. And a black & white picture I took of him sitting on my front step of the house I grew up in. A veritable throwback from my early days of photojournalism. He is casually back on his haunches, palms flat. His head cocked ever so slightly to one side.What lies behind the camera reaches me before the image can. His eyes are responsible for my gladness. His lips remain warm. His arms too, are strong. This I recall without sadness.

Still, seawater fuses my eyesight. How I wish I had a gift to give in return. Something he would tear through with a child’s delight on Christmas morning. Something he could keep for all time, long after the wrapping has been swept away.

The box stays in the closet now. It remains unopened. So shall it be. The gift and me.