Quite a few years ago, at the start of the Holiday season, I took my then, very young daughter to The old “Altman Department Store”, on Fifth Avenue and 34th Street.
It was a most elegant store where we simply looked for the array of possibilities of gifts to give as well as to receive.
Most of the many items were my daughter’s wishes for her brothers and herself. At one point I saw a beautifully designed wool sweater, priced way above my family’s budget.
I touched or rather fondled it admiringly, probably with a sigh as if to imply that I really liked it.
To my great surprise, when opening the gifts on Xmas morning, after the children had opened theirs, I opened the gift my husband gave me, which was precisely the one previewed on our the foray which my daughter and I took. My daughter’s eyes were fixated on me as I opened the gift, which was obviously the result of her telling her father what to get for me. He was not a shopping expert, so it must have been quite a feat for a seven-year-old girl to communicate precisely the idiosyncratic whimsical wish of her mother.
I was overcome by many emotions, least of which was a delight at getting the sweater. The price was outrageous, at that time of our lives.
I knew that I must return it. I tried the pullover on, and thank the Lord, it was itchy.
My skin turned red all over, prompting me to take it off immediately. I was then as am now completely allergic to wool.
I have always loved my husband and my daughter.
The gift of that Xmas of long ago, though never worn, worms my heart to this day knowing how much they have loved me.