The Gift

I undid the ribbon on the gift-

box and it must have been a load-

bearing ribbon because

the gift imploded. This is also

the nature of a secret, which

is something structural and

existent until it’s revealed.

Not to say the gift was a secret

but it was dropped off at my door

while I was asleep, with a note

that read: “your holic.”

Holic isn’t a word as far as I—

or the online dictionary I use—

know, but it could be a contraction

of “alcoholic,” or an attempt

at the adjectival form of “hole.” Or

it could be the Bosphorus inlet of Haliç,

The Golden Horn. It just plumb

crumpled in front of me, leaving

nothing to attest for its entirety

but the cryptic note. The writer

might’ve stopped after

making an error, either by duress

or apathy; maybe he/she intended

to write “your holiness …”

The extravagance of the bow

might rule out apathy.

There’s a lady who’s always

walking about the apartment

complex asking for a light, and she

calls me a saint when I offer.

That might explain the duress.

I think she’s on something most

of the time. I’ve never seen

anything quite like it before, the density

of the imploded gift was so great,

it rolled off the table and fell through

the floorboards. I went to go check

on my downstairs neighbour, to see

if she was okay, and if she could

return my gift ball, but she wasn’t home.

In fact, her apartment too had

imploded, as had the vacancy which

it left behind. Come to think of it,

my life is full of these instances.