I have begun a list on my phone of gift ideas for our family. This is tempered by such restraints as those who live in small apartments, or shy away from clutter. Then there is the bold fact that I have been giving to them for forty years, and what could I possibly add to that parade? 

 

I took an elderly man to the post office. We do this three times each week, excluding holidays, and we joke about the incessant junk mail. There is always a fistful of appeals for money, and envelopes marked "Urgent!"

 

Many times there is a gift tucked in. Over the months he has opened half a dozen calendars, as if people hang them in every room of the house. He saves the note pads, pens, and return labels. But the shopping bags do not interest him. He offered me the too small Christmas socks, and a tiny flashlight that might make my grandson laugh.

 

I wonder about the person whose job it is to decide what to purchase and slide into a million envelopes. Do they resist the parameters, which include cost, size, and broad appeal? Surely a boatload end up in the trash. 

 

While he was sorting the "saves" and "not saves", I noticed a pair of birds at the feeder behind him. The irony is that I have a better view, because of where each of us sit at the table. Their fluttering visits bring me joy. 

 

I smiled to realize that Someone is sending me presents every day. The music playing on my AirPods, the colors outside the window, the peanut butter cups that appear by my sewing machine (put there by Benjamin), the hugs from people I love, the chance to make a quilt from a good man's flannel shirts, and a voice with which to sing afresh never go out of style. Plus, they are a one-size-fits-all, and have no carbon footprint.