I wrote this February 19, and it's all true.


THOR'S BIRTHDAY

My grandson Thor will be six years old tomorrow. I sent his presents two weeks ago to be certain they would be in his small hands today. I imagine him eyeing the big cardboard box and thinking, “More clothes.” That’s who I am to him, that lady who sends him clothes.

I’m sorry to say we don’t know each other well. The distance between us is measured in more than miles. The only thing I know for sure about him is that he loves motorcycles, dirt bikes specifically – like his father and grandfather. I don’t, although when my ex and I were dating, I rode them with determination and sometimes wild abandon.

Thor owns enough motorcycle paraphernalia to choke an elk. So I buy him clothes. It gets harder to do this every year because I refuse to buy my grandson a piece of clothing with a skull on it. I don’t understand this skull thing, they’re everywhere. Why is that?

This year I decided to try to broaden his attention span. I sent him one of my Queen Conch shells from the Caribbean. This one is bigger than his head, gloriously pink, and the fluted lip is half an inch thick. Some of them are thinner and more fragile. If he drops it (After all, he’s only six), I don’t want it to break.

I also sent him a leather belt decorated with Brighton Silver; I found it in a thrift shop. I didn’t know what the hell Brighton Silver meant, but my friend told me it’s a big deal.

I threw in two little bobble-head one inch fantasy animals from Mexico. I buy them from the beach venders every year. I love the bright colors and impossible shapes. I’ve never seen a yellow bunny or a purple dinosaur in real life.

I admit I included a toy motorcycle, sort of insurance in case he hates everything else.

I hope he likes the shell. I hope he holds it up next to his ear and hears the sea. His father could show him how. I’d like for him to know there’s more sounds in our amazing world than the roar of a dirt bike.