Some may label me a cheapskate. Under my bed I keep a plastic box of wrapping paper. Not new, shiny paper, but rather scraps with wrinkled evidence of each past life. Every time I wrap a gift—to place under the tree or bundle up in a brown box to parcel out my love—I recall each prize the paper once bound with ribbon around it. Paper dancing with pink polka dots once cuddled twin pairs of booties. Marching penguins and candy canes swaddled peppermint lotion to soothe my pregnant feet. An inside-out grocery bag, bespoke with crayon scribbles, presented a preschool masterpiece: a pinecone with rainbow glitter—the first ornament I unwrap for the tree each year. I listen as the paper scraps whisper their memories. I smooth and fold lavender plaid paper—no tape, just yellow yarn tied loosely into a simple bow, easy to receive.

her aging fingers
opening
a chrysanthemum

Bio: Shawn Aveningo-Sanders