When I was six and my sister three,
my grandmother gave us each
a quarter and took us to the five
and dime to buy presents
for our parents for Christmas.
 
Mama loved jewelry, so Judy
and Grandma were looking
through the bracelets, earrings,
and necklaces. Go get your daddy
some Old Spice, Grandma told me.
 
I found a red box with a photo
of a cherry and crème filling
flowing out of a chocolate.
Queen Anne Cordial Cherries,
my grandmother read.
 
I had no idea what it meant,
but my grandmother asked
if that was what I wanted
to get my father, and I nodded
and plunked down my quarter.
 
My grandmother stuck it in a drawer
and said she'd help us wrap
the presents Christmas Eve.
But curious as the Calico,
my sister and I opened the box.
 
We held a chocolate cup
in our palms and used both
thumbs to pry them open
and, with our tongues, scooped
and swallowed the syrup.
 
Then we chewed the cherry
and the chocolate, savoring
the sweet taste, and put the box
back in the drawer, repeating
the ritual night after night
until there was only one left.
 
Grandma gave us the wrapping
paper and we wrote For Daddy
on a tag and placed it under
the tree. When Daddy opened
it, his dark eyes widened.
He laughed and we giggled.
 
Every Christmas, it became
a game and we'd buy Daddy
a box of Queen Anne Cordials
and eat all but one and he'd
feign surprise and us innocence.
 
The family tradition continued
even after we left home. We'd
return with jewelry and perfume
for Mother, and sweaters
and Queen Anne's for Daddy,
and eat all the chocolates but one.
 
Last Christmas, I asked my husband
for a box of Queen Anne's. What
about the diabetes? he asked. I promise
I'll eat only one, I lied. On Christmas
Day, I opened the box and ate
the only chocolate left. My husband
laughed and I feigned innocence.


© by Sharon Waller Knutson.
Used with the author's permission.