She held the box to her heart. Either it was warm, or she was cold.
Ralphie had insisted on tying the ribbon that morning, its glitter irresistible. He had twirled it around his chubby fingers and squealed. When she offered to help, he shook his head. “I do it.” She would not be able to help him forever.
Ralphie tied the ribbon into something of a knot, and handed it to her as a gift. “Good job!” she told him, as his glittery hand reached out for hers.
“What do you say?” he asked, dimples betraying his smirk.
“Thank you.” The young mother squeezed his hand as she said it, and he giggled.
Now she took off her gloves, and stuffed them into her bottomless pocket: home to a museum ticket, a used tissue, a toy gem, and God knows what else. She was a mother, was she not?
She traced the edges of her box, folded carefully, as instructed by a four minute, twenty-one second YouTube video, 0.5 times speed. It hit her that the box was bigger than her son’s hand. How long would that hold true?
She could not let it go, she realized, and yet she could not move either. Her son would cry if she was not back soon.
A gust of wind stung her face. Her nose flared and her breath rattled. In the branches above, she caught a glimpse of a bird’s nest. It was perfect, abandoned. It would never be full again.
She and the wind took a deep breath together. When they let go, the snow resettled. The mother opened her mouth to speak, but her words were not easily rushed.
She counted: one, two, three. She took a breath, then decided to count to four instead. She kissed the box right on the knot, smearing her lips with glitter. “Forgive me,” she whispered, as she tucked the box into the snow. “Forgive me, Ralphie.”