Some things old. And some things new.
When neatly wrapped they all would be
A special gift for you. Or me.
She’d wrap most anything she found,
Items square. And items round.
That spoon there in your chocolate cup,
Then the cup too, to follow up.
Old toys and games. Knick-knacks, dishware,
That coat you’d flung across the chair.
Shoes and boots and mitts and hats,
Birdcage, bird and spitting cat.
All were grist to her wrapping mill,
All were wrapped, and would be, still,
Except the part I now speak of,
The giving them to those she loved.
‘Cause wrapping merely was the start,
Of giving. From a child’s warm heart.
Of watching as she did bestow,
And waiting for that happy glow.
She’s older now, and I am too.
We’ve kids and grandkids. Much ado.
But memories I just can’t escape,