My Father's Gift

My Father’s Gift

It came in a small envelope delivered to my brother’s house in Berkeley. I had been sleeping in Matt’s laundry room, bouncing at a nearby bar, and writing. The letter was two weeks late for my birthday, a few days short of my four year anniversary of falling in Joshua Tree, and a week and a half early for Christmas. I tore the envelop open. Inside was a small, plain, lined, index card with my Father’s scrawl on it.

“Guys: Hope you like this fancy card. You can hang it up. Love, Dad.”

Behind the card were two checks, one for my brother and one for me. The checks were for a hundred dollars each, a colossal amount of money for my constantly broke father to be giving.

“Thanks for the gift. The best part is the card!” I texted him. I love my father’s wit. The joke meant more to me than the money.

“I was going to wrap it but I did not have a Walmart bag,” my father wrote in return.

“Ha!” I wrote back. I did not want him to hide behind a joke so I wrote, “The first part was funny. No need to keep going with the joke- it ruins the sentiment. Thanks again.”

I finished my text with strong words, “Love you.”