There were little hints day after day. Sometimes packaged elegantly in themed wrapping paper and other times just a tatter of a box sealed with a twist of fraying twine. She left them everywhere to be found, mine were the only eyes who spied them. She was always there before me, one step ahead. I could do nothing but follow her. I always stumbled on. And she led unseen.

Sometimes on long winding river walks on Sunday mornings she left them among the frosted blades of grass, scattered colorfully like Easter eggs out of season. Or in surprises they were lodged in the twisted twigs of barren trees where the robins and chickadees didn’t seem to mind. They chirped on—only once in a while did they pull at the ribbons or in that terrible cliché: my heart strings. The gifts often took wing or fell flowing away in the river, lost in ripples of remorse. I could not accept them all—it was too much—but I should have. And I learned after a while, take like a beggar what you have found and what has been given. It may not come again.

My fingers, a blood offering, were often sliced with paper cuts. I realized how razor-sharp and honed that paper could be. I learned to be carful before I grabbed and revealed what was there for me. But she was a trickster and some of those presents were swathed in the softest of silk, leaving my fingers erect in smooth seduction. Her moods were as varied as those spring days that bring sleet and snow, soft warm sun and the thunder boom one after the other. I never knew what her countenance would be or what it would hide. A lady, a dame, a femme fatale.

“One of those relationships,” others said in scorn, “That’s what you have got yourself into.”

They shook their heads and upbraided, “It’ll never end well, get serious, find a real job!”

One thing that never came easy, the gifts were never just handed over, but had to be searched for. Some days there was no desire to look, no desire to play this silly game of a treasure hunt. But she had her ways. She punished; she scorned. She withheld. No gift would be delivered for day after day. A hunger and desperation led to a void of consumption.

The panic gripped, was she really finally gone? I begged and pleaded, hoped she heard. She bided her time, how else could she be? That’s how she loved.

Without warning there might be a present right outside the door as big as the sky or one so tiny that a ragged mouse in the subway would have to hold it pinched between two of its grimy toes’ itty-bitty nails. Such similes and metaphors. Wide eyes or microscope lenses. A tease, a taunt, a good natured goad, but never ridicule.

She’s like that, grand and diminutive. I’ve had to learn to live with it. It’s her nature, and now slowly becoming mine.

I thought back, sometimes the boxes were only filled with trinkets. Trinkets and charms to be strung together. Other times there were folded notes. At times coquettish: what can you do with this? Once in a while in curved cursive kisses: This one is just because. That last word followed with an exclamation mark that had instead of a dot, a tiny little heart. Her presents were always well punctuated, her presence something I had to learn to accept.

She led me on. I let her. She kept my heart atwitter and my hands slightly damp. Those flutters of butterflies in the stomach bellowed fresh air up into the sparks of my brain. A brain caught fire, all doubt extinguished, my fingers tried to keep pace with the flames. In exhaustion I turned away. A job and life—a ladder to crawl upon to the top.

She no longer was even at the bottom of the rung. She lost her hold. I let her fall. It was too much, I wouldn’t let her regain it again. I spurned her, turned away for days, weeks, months and then years. I thought I had turned the tables, I would show her that I didn’t need her presents. The game was over, or so I thought.

The gifts kept coming, still wrapped and still ribboned. A seduction of color, a temptation of repartee. This was not for the serious man and life had become earnest. Insurance and pension schemes, contracts and licenses—those were the things I learned how to sign. There was no room for trinkets and baubles from that lady and dame—fatale.

But it was one of those relationships, one without escape but always hope. Her gifts were a bottomless cornucopia. She was an ample mystery. On the mantle were placed presents, in the bath, even upon the stairway. I woke to them on the nightstand at dawn, found them placed before I fell into dreams. How did she always know how to get in? Had I given her a key without knowing?

Upon leaving the house, I stumbled over a multitude. I gave up trying to climb that ladder that was expected of me. I began again to accept what was offered so freely. I unwrapped and unfolded what was given to me. A manifold mania never exhausted.

Each gift was a piece to be added to another and a bounty to be made into a whole. And one day a box plain in brown paper wrap with a loose knotted twist of twine came undone in my hands. I pulled the lid to find a large pile. On the top was a white sheet which announced in bold print: accepted. Underneath a scribble: no exchanges, no return to sender—this is all yours—after that ‘s’ was an exclamation mark dotted with the largest of hearts and her name in a curly cursive flourish, with a lipsticked kiss:

Muse

💋

P.S. Congratulations to you! I’ll be around with more, just stay true.

______

And true I have stayed as you see from this gift on a page unwrapped.