Dad always tossed my gift in a high arc, but not my sisters because she couldn't catch. A beautiful throw, and I would imagine myself in right field with a mouth full of bubblegum. I snatched it out of the air like one grabs at a bunny rabbit, scared it'll kick and run away.
The paper in my hand, smooth as ice, and that rattle when you shake it. A am alone, and this is my universe. Like Sheerluck Holmes, I investigate the mystery. Deductions, deductions, deductions. It tilts, I muse. Guess the weight by holding it light on your fingertips.
How could someone open such a thing. A box full of endless possibilities. Whatever is inside, I know now pales compared to the magic of the moment. Who remembers the gifts anyway? But the feeling, oh my. That high arching toss my dad only ever threw to me. Glorious.