I don’t really like gifts.

For two main reasons, chief of which is that I almost never know what to get someone else. So it’s awkward when someone gets me something and I’m caught flat-footed about it. It’s like, “Ohh, thanks! I… I didn’t get you anything, so. Here we are.” It’s a weird mix of feeling obligated, not wanting to feel obligated, but genuinely feeling obligated because of an actual want to get a gift for someone. It’s weird.

But I also have gotten to a point in my life where if there’s something I want I’ll just go get it. I’m fortunate enough to be independent. The fun things; the electronics, the televisions, the video games, the computer parts and what not. I can get those myself when the mood fancies, for the most part. Don’t have to wait for Santa Claus or anything.

In that, I don’t really feel a want for gifts. I don’t want anything to get me anything. But a gift is seldom just the physical object, isn’t it?

I went to my parents’ house this year for Christmas. I’ve developed a newfound appreciation for my folks as I’ve gotten older, and have been able to see how lucky I was to have parents who loved me and saw to me turning out okay. They gave me a foundation to become who I’ve grown up to be, all the while allowing me to become just that. I love them for that.

But I didn’t get anyone any gifts.

So I felt extremely awkward when my sister and my parents gave me things. I felt like a bad son. A bad brother. It wasn’t just the monetary, materialistic value of the things they got me. It was the sentiment behind it. They know me well enough to know that giving gifts isn’t my strong suit, nor is receiving them. But they love me enough to get me something anyway. Something about that resonated with me, once I started to get over the valuation I put on myself.

As poorly equipped as I am at finding a good gift for anyone, I decided to reverse engineer my next course of action.

I’m old enough that I’m probably more excited about getting a vacuum cleaner than a video game. I can spend my own money on a video game. I don’t want to spend my money on a vacuum cleaner if I can avoid it. Suddenly the jokes I’d heard about adulthood as a kid make sense. So I went down the avenue of the more practical, quality of life approach.

My sister loves her dog Jersey very much. That happy little puppyface was and is a huge part of my life. She got me through some of the more difficult parts of moving to Virginia. I came up with the idea of naming her Jersey because my sister got her just before we moved. I posed that we were taking a piece of New Jersey with us. It stuck.

So I went to a pet store and got a bunch of things for Jersey. Puppy pads, a little dress thing she could wear when it’s cold, and some toys. Not much, but I had hoped it would mean a lot to my sister, to realize I know her enough to give a gift that’s related to something that’s close to her heart. That I care.

I didn’t know what to get my parents, though.

The house I grew up in has seen a lot of change since I moved out. My parents have really made the place nice, with new paint, new appliances. But one thing that hadn’t changed was the mailbox.

That mailbox was part of the oldest memory I can recall, when I was somewhere around 4 and my grandpa pulled up in his van. I ran down the driveway to hug him, and he picked me up. Right by that mailbox.

But it had seen better days, for sure. I texted my sister and said that I wanted to get mom and dad a new mailbox from us. I borrowed her car and went over to Home Depot to pick one out.

It was important to me that my parents had to do nothing throughout the entire process. They had a service where someone came to install the mailbox. Which was a relief, because I was prepared to try to install it myself and who knows how that would have turned out.

It took them a long time to actually show up, but my dad sent me a picture of the mailbox installed this morning.

The wave of emotion I felt in that moment was infinitely more potent than I had anticipated. I don’t know.

It wasn’t just a mailbox to me.

It was an acknowledgement. An apology. A promise. An expression. Appreciation. Hope. Vulnerability. Admission of emotional dependence. Proof that I have a beating heart still capable of feeling emotion in a capacity that I truly felt left me for a long time.

I thought about how I am older than my parents were when they had me, and how I couldn’t imagine how I’d handle having a kid, even now. I put myself in their shoes. There’s no friggin’ instruction manual for raising a kid. I imagine you just try to do the best you can. Life isn’t about you at that point anymore.

More and more I feel a need to make my parents proud. To show them that their effort wasn’t in vain. I get it now, in a way I hadn’t up until about a couple of years ago.

They didn’t owe me anything, and I owe them everything. They sacrificed so much because they loved my sister and me.

I see my parents as more than just my mom and dad now. I see them as people, main protagonists in their own stories. It’s in that light that their efforts to raise me seem that much more heroic. I’ve spent a lot of time ignorant of that fact, I’m ashamed to admit. But hopefully I can make up for some of that going forward.

I got to do something for my parents. I didn’t just get them something. There’s a difference.

It seems like a bum trade though, when I think about it. “I raised this kid and all I got was a mailbox.” But I hope they look at that mailbox and see their efforts have come full circle, in a way. I hope it’s proof that their efforts put something into the world.

I like to think I’m pretty cool, and they have a lot to do with what made me me. Maybe that sweetens the deal with the mailbox. That’s the hope, anyway.