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By Hillary Ibarra

In December 2000, I joyfully anticipated my boyfriend Matthew's Christmas visit and was impatient to discover his gift for me. My father said Matthew had told him what it was and provided intriguing descriptions in the days leading up to Matthew's arrival.

“It’s large,” he said. “Kind of circular. No…more oblong.”

“It would look nice under a window,” he said another day, rubbing his beard. “On a south-facing table, where it could catch the light.”

The next time I asked for clues, they contradicted his earlier descriptions.

“Now that I think about it, it’s too oddly shaped for a table. Best to keep it on the floor where it can’t fall off and break. Fragile…but big! Might hurt someone if it shattered.”

“Dad, just tell me!” I begged.

“No, I can’t,” he replied with a twinkle in his eye.

Preparing for Matthew’s visit, my mom and I decorated the tree with red bows and heirloom ornaments. My mom’s musical nutcracker guarded the kitchen bar, and I arranged my parents’ collection of ceramic cardinals on the living room shelves. One evening I asked my mom to show me how to make chicken noodle soup, and she grinned and winked at my dad. Unlike my sisters, I shunned the kitchen unless I was baking chocolate chip cookies. But I was practical at last; Matthew could make his mom’s spaghetti sauce, I knew, but we couldn’t survive on that and cookies alone.

Closer to Matthew’s visit, Dad and I laughed hysterically while I was up to my shoulder in the back of our overturned couch, working to restuff it to an acceptable point of cushioning. It was well-used, or well-loved, rather. But it lacked the right amount of oomph, so I was shoving old — clean, mind you — clothes down the back of it. One of my best memories of those last months in my parents’ home is Dad and I laughing our heads off over my concern for a well-proportioned couch.

But even the joys of couch-stuffing could not keep me from pestering about my Christmas gift.

“Well,” said Dad, “It’s hard to describe. It’s large — but not gigantic. Roundish, but flat on the bottom. It refracts light. It would look great on your desk if you situated it properly. A magnificent, colorful thing. I can’t believe he got it for you! A rare find.”

At this point I was picturing a huge prism or a contemporary art sculpture and despaired of getting more useful clues from Dad.

I was surprised and relieved one day when Dad announced in the car, “Alright, Hoodoo. I’ll tell you what your gift is.”

I leaned forward.

“I was joking earlier. What he really got you was…skis.”  

I felt my face grow hot. I threw up my hands and cried, “I told him I won’t ski! Why the hell did he get me skis?! Just because he likes to ski does not mean I have to. I am not going to ride down a mountain on sticks!”

I crossed my arms and humphed. Uproarious laughter came from the front of the car.

Mom said, “Hillary, he didn’t get you skis! Your dad doesn’t know what Matthew got you.”

“Really, Dad? Are you serious? You made up all those clues? I believed you!”

Dad laughed all the way to the mall where he dropped me off for work, waved goodbye and called, “Have a good day, Hoodoo!”

I wished for skis when we passed around presents on Christmas Eve. Matthew handed me a checkered ceramic box shaped like a present tied up with a bow, roses, holly, gold baubles and pinecones. My grandmother would have loved it.

“Look, Mom!” I said, a smile plastered to my face as I tried to sound elated. “It’s a box.”

“No, look inside,” Matthew said, laughing.

I lifted the top to discover a beautiful silver and turquoise bracelet purchased in Old Town Albuquerque from a Native American artisan, still one of my favorite pieces of jewelry.

I wanted to get a cardboard snowman box for your bracelet,” said Matthew. “But my aunt convinced me to buy a ‘nicer’ one.”

“I would have loved the snowman!” I smiled at him. He knew me, after all.

My gift for Matthew was also a bracelet, a stainless-steel I.D. with “My Knight” inscribed on the inside. He wore it that Christmas Eve and occasionally until we married. He has never worn it since. Apparently, he scorns a bracelet that has the gall to remind him of his name while suggesting we live in the Middle Ages. I should have bought him whatever the heck my dad was describing.

The best gift that Christmas Eve, however, was not the lovely, unique bracelet Matthew gave to me. It was more precious than tangible things.

After going to Christmas Eve Mass together, we lingered in the car in front of my parents’ home, embracing. Matthew tilted his face toward mine and whispered something in my ear. I didn’t hear what he said, so I whispered back, “Wha…what did you say?”

“I love you.”

This year marks our 20th Christmas together. All those nights canoodling on a freshly stuffed couch that first Christmas paid off, obviously. Truth is, I would have fallen for Matthew even if he had given me deadly skis. I wear my turquoise bracelet often, and though a checkered corner and its bow are chipped, I kept the ceramic box.

— Hillary Ibarra

Hillary Ibarra is the author of The Christmas List, an inspirational novella based on real events. Her humor has appeared in New Mexico Woman Magazine and at various online sites, and she is a CatholicMom.com contributor. When not baking, hugging trees or playing endless board games with her children, she writes at Faith & Humor by Hillary Ibarra.