The ring of yellow, red and orange buds is now a symbol of life’s fragility, of how quickly time passes as we age, how short-lived are the flowers, the seasons riding wings of falcons as they speed past.
I carefully manipulate the wire hook and hang the silk tulip wreath on my front door.
It is immediately cheerful, welcoming, heart-lifting.
And it instantly reduces me to tears.
This first decoration of spring is the last birthday gift from my late sister.
When I unwrapped it a year ago, she almost burst with joy. She knew I’d love it. And she was right.
I can’t remember a birthday when my sister didn’t give me a gift, each time her zest for giving equaling mine for receiving.
Even as children, she would wrap one of her Barbie’s or a plastic ring or a candy bar bought with her allowance and present it to me on my day.
My sister was a giver in every sense of the word. She had a knack for knowing what you wanted or needed — be it comfort, empathy or just a new set of kitchen towels — and an eagerness to deliver it with fanfare.
When your birthday rolled around, she embraced the challenge of finding something special. She enjoyed the giving process as much as the recipient enjoyed the gift.
By contrast, I have always been a practical gift-giver — cash, gift cards, socks.
But when she was first diagnosed with cancer and scheduled for a grueling surgery, I went in search of something that symbolized both my enduring gratitude and my concern for her comfort.
I bought her a warm Ugg robe.
She loved it and wore it throughout her recovery. And, in her final days, she told her husband to give it to me when she passed. She figured I’d appreciate a cozy hug.
That’s just how she was, thoughtful, insightful, particular, especially when it came to gifts. She was one of those people who truly loved to give more than to receive.
She had this ability to hone in on the individual, as if she wanted you to know she’d spent some time in your world looking for something that reflected who or where you were at that point in time.
When I took up baking during COVID, she gave me a stack of cake and pastry cookbooks for my birthday.
When I was planning a summer trip to Europe, she gave me an assortment of travel supplies and guides.
In college, when I was as poor as a church mouse, she gave me a basket of essentials — shampoos, snacks, cash.
I looked forward to her gift every year because I knew it would be something special.
Honestly, even though we lived many miles apart during most of our adulthood, I can’t remember a birthday without her special touch.
Until this past one.
She died two months prior.
During her struggle with that monstruous disease, a dread was eating me alive. How very much I would miss her — her love, her attention and her gift for letting you know she was there both for you and with you, thinking of you, caring about you, looking out for you. Always.
She was my first call when I had big news. She was first on my list of people to catch up with after a busy weekend. My casa was her casa whenever she wanted to visit.
I knew I would miss her. I think she hoped that her gift of a brightly colored wreath of my favorite flowers would transport me back to the day she delivered it and help mitigate the sorrow of her loss.
Indeed.
To be clear, I don’t need birthday presents.
I am blessed to be able to say that but it is true. I am on the downsizing side of life.
I don’t need gadgets.
I don’t need décor.
I don’t need more stuff.
But I’ll always need her.
Donna Vickroy is an award-winning reporter, editor and columnist who worked for the Daily Southtown for 38 years. She can be reached at donnavickroy4@gmail.com.
