gift-wrapped

You wanted a present, a perfect story, gift-wrapped with a shiny
ribbon: a beginning, a middle, an end. A resolution - the kind neatly
ties things up, not the New Year's kind that is made to be
broken.

I couldn't find the right kind of wrapping paper. I had to make do with
something too bright, too garish, with big-footed clowns walking all
over it. The bow was clumsy and too big. The words I wrote on the gift
tag were cliched.

But worse, when I picked up the box to hand it to you I heard a rattle
from inside. I knew straight away: my story, carefully crafted over so
much time, was too fragile and thin, and it shattered into pieces
before it got to you.

I thought about putting it back together again. Then I thought about
sweeping up the fragments and throwing them away in disgust. Then I sat
with them spread before me, and studied them. I grew to like them. They
had jagged edges, they were chipped in places, but they made me
smile.

So I have started to put them together to make a new story, a crooked,
misshapen one. There are gaps where sometimes the pieces don't fit very
well, and the light shines right through them. There is an ending,
followed by an introduction, a footnote. I don't think I will wrap it
when I'm finished, or tie it up with ribbon, but I will offer it to you
anyway: my imperfect tale.