Sunday, 14 December 2003 | Gift

My dad brought it back from Israel in 1998, along with a few other souvenirs for himself, for friends, for me and my brother. When he unpacked, he spread the items out on the bed and asked what I was interested in having. I immediately claimed the goblet, a hand-painted porcelain creature with a collection of unrecognizable images filled in with watery blues and greens and browns. The goblet was of course the item he'd picked out for himself, I later learned, but he told me to take it and shooed it away with a flick of his hand.

Whenever my parents give me something, I feel bad if I don't use it enough, if I don't like it, if I break it, or if I lose it. By giving me something that he actually wanted, my dad unknowingly fed that guilt, which (admittedly) is out of proportion and glows like an aura around the goblet's porcelain edges.

I keep loose change in the goblet, but rarely do I actually "use" it or even go near it. I did today, however. In a sad Christmas-induced financial emergency, I poured all of the change out on my dresser and scooped the silver to one side. Three seventy-five! I had soup for dinner.

Tomorrow is payday, which means, among other things, I'll again begin replenishing the goblet-bank with shiny metal snacks.