Senior year of high school, my grandmother
took us holiday shopping
just like she always did — her seasonal joy 
sourced by a day spent scouting the Westshore 

Mall, urging my mother, sister, and me to try
on any and every piece of clothing 
that happened to catch our eye. She bought
us far too many things but was never

satisfied until we walked out stooped 
by the weight of all our big brown bags, 
such an embarrassment
of riches. We’d load everything into the trunk

of her car, then she’d trundle it home and gift
wrap what we’d chosen and already seen,
just so we could open presents on Christmas
morning. It was silly, but a time-honored tradition.

But then something happened. She died, 
much to everyone’s shock, one early-
December morning, in her sleep.
In the wake of her passing, a relative found

the packages, didn’t know what to do but place
them under the family tree. That Christmas,
we opened boxes whose contents we already knew: 
They were full of grief, and we never felt less merry.