Every year it gets harder to pretend that the present I open is the present I meant, that the joy I've felt that I attempt to send is the same that comes back to me from my mutual friends. And yet, there was one beautiful box in the room that day, not under the fir that was fake or the children's stockings that were China made, wrapped not in paper but clay, with a ribbon that fastened every corner every fray, that glistened as gold and silver, not the metallic kind of way, and what was weird was it was hard work to find and harder still to display, but everybody knew the item of most value was not new nor tangible, yet truly invaluable, financially free yet its cost was incalculable, it would always be the only thing that ever mattered to me. The best present I get every year is just being here with my family.