I slogged in to the Salvation Army to volunteer on the quality control team, secretly wishing I were home in front of the television. In the gym I grabbed a form from a stack of papers. It listed members of an anonymous family: first names, ages, gift requests. I joined my teammate beside a plastic yard bag busting at the seams with packages. We were to match the contents against the items on the form. At least thirteen million bags lay scattered across the gym, all overflowing. I would never see home again.
My teammate plucked a fashion doll from the sack. The form read “Kimmy age seven, Barbie.” Check.
Next, a football. “Reginald, ten, sports.” Check.
A pair of Iron Man pajamas. “Andy, eight, superheroes.” Check. A lump rose in my throat. I was holding an honest-to-goodness Christmas List.
A pair of Uggs. “Marnie, six, fuzzy boots.” When I checked them off the list, my hand shook. They were a nine on the Richter Scale of cuteness.
The children’s mother had penciled a note across the bottom of the form. “… working two jobs … husband just laid off. We won’t need this help next year, we’re grateful …”
Next year? I’ll be back. Wearing an elf hat.
My teammate plucked a fashion doll from the sack. The form read “Kimmy age seven, Barbie.” Check.
Next, a football. “Reginald, ten, sports.” Check.
A pair of Iron Man pajamas. “Andy, eight, superheroes.” Check. A lump rose in my throat. I was holding an honest-to-goodness Christmas List.
A pair of Uggs. “Marnie, six, fuzzy boots.” When I checked them off the list, my hand shook. They were a nine on the Richter Scale of cuteness.
The children’s mother had penciled a note across the bottom of the form. “… working two jobs … husband just laid off. We won’t need this help next year, we’re grateful …”
Next year? I’ll be back. Wearing an elf hat.