the present problem
During the winter, I began to search for a special gift for someone I cared about. I knew exactly what I had in mind, it just needed to exist. Discovery was quite a process, but what I ultimately selected was perfect — a vintage instrument from Europe. Brendan was recruited early for the search committee on this, and was was able to hasten the progress by virtue of the Dub’s tour schedule; he phoned completely breathless, and after his description, we both were a little short on air. Oh yes, it was ideal in every way, even with the dollar/Euro exchange, and Brendan arranged for a bit of inexpensive restoration work by an artisan he knows (Brendan has a future in personal shopping). Now after months, the work is complete and the person to whom I was offering the lovely and unique birthday gesture is no longer in my life; this couldn’t-have-found-a-better lagniappe is not readily (or likely at all) gifted elsewhere.
Although I have no problem bestowing the intended recipient anyway, regardless of our relationship status, as he would have better use and appreciation for this particular libation than anyone else I know — to initiate contact would certainly give the wrong idea, and make me feel a bit like Pandora, among other things, like desperate and ulterior-motive ladden, of which I am not. And sure, I could return it, undoing Bren’s superior and methodical work on my behalf, would almost ensure that the shopping part of the relationship is over. Or, the least preferred and most likely solution would be for me to hold onto it, borrowing a phrase from my mother, “You never know when you might need it.” Right. Reminds me a little of the moss-covered, three-handled family gredunza from Dr. Seuss — you don’t know you need it (or even what it is) until someday comes.
