Untitled Short Fiction Piece

It’s your birthday – your last one. I don’t mean last as in most recent, I mean last. I’ve spent three weeks looking for the right present and finally found it. I wrap it nicely in silver-flecked paper. I think it looks exquisite. I tie the ribbon in a foolish way. I do this not because I’m clumsy, but because I always have and it seems fitting to stick with tradition.

You enter the room as I’ve just finished my awkward, asymmetrical bow. Although you seem to have shrunk with the years, tonight you look healthy as ever. For a moment my mind begins to race, but reality snaps back and I realize it’s a silly thought.

Your eyes scan the room and pause momentarily on the present. I wonder if you’ve figured out what it is. You always seemed to be able to tell somehow. You speak and I am almost unable to hear you. Your voice used to command attention, now it begs to be heard.

“And just exactly what is that?” you say in mock-surprise. The sound of your voice tells me that you recognize the delicious fragility of this travesty. You never were one to sugar-coat the truth. Why should this be any different?

“Oh, just a present for a friend of mine. I’m expecting him any second.” I say.

“I’m sure you are. I bet he’s a handsome old fellow with gloriously graying hair and a hell of a sense of humor.” you respond.

“Yeah,” I say, “nothing like you at all!”

You laugh in appreciation of the joke. You weren’t exaggerating either. You have an incredible sense of humor. It’s one of the few things time and sickness have not taken from you, and I’m glad for it. Through your humor, we can both escape to a place where we still laugh and wish like we used to.

Still laughing, I hand you the present. I’m excited to see you open it, but still not surprised when you set it aside and, with a hint of tears behind your fragile eyes, pause to say, “Thank you, son.”