The gift that keeps on giving

It started with a toaster.Tom and I had been a couple barely five months when he left for Washington, D.C. to take a six-month science writing internship. We spoke every day, wrote the I’m-pining-for-you kind of letters people newly in love write to each other, neither of us doubting for an instant that when he returned we’d escalate to the “let’s make a life together” stage. (We were right.) After the internship, he caught a ride west with a crazed, pill-popping ride-board stranger, and together they barrelled cross-country for 43 (pharmacologically assisted) non-stop hours.No, that’s not right. They did stop somewhere. I think Tom told me it was Ogallala, Nebraska. There they alighted ever so briefly at a second-hand store where Tom, brain buzzing, looked for a gift for his beloved. That would be me. He chose a toaster. It was, in fairness, a kind of cool, vintage-y toaster. But it was a toaster. Imagine my delight.It very quickly became the gift to which all other subsequent gifts were compared, as in: At least it’s not a toaster. Or: That’s nice but can it toast a bagel? During the ensuing flawless, conflict-free 30-plus years of our marriage, I received other such amorous gifts: kitchen shears, garden trowels, a hand-held cordless vacuum cleaner, a set of Allen wrenches, a phone charger. But there was also the antique jade necklace, the beads a stunning and unusual sea green, and little pearl earrings I wear when I want to be ultra-fancy, and, in Mexico, a carnelian and silver bracelet that is one of the most beautiful things I own.I loved these traditionally romantic gifts. Love them still. But, in truth, I’ve worn that jade necklace maybe four times in fifteen years, and I use the damned toaster every day. During the three years of the pandemic, I never wore the pearl earrings. I did, however, vacuum out the car several times a week. Those kitchen shears? I never knew I needed them until I had them, and now I can’t imagine culinary life without them. There is, was, a deep thoughtfulness to these gifts that transcended romance. It was about a life shared, the dailiness of that.A week or so after Tom died, I got a package in the mail. In a pretty box that opened like a book was nestled a cruet of aged balsamic vinegar di Modena. It was a final present from Tom. I wondered when, during his last weeks, he ordered this. I wondered if he imagined me drizzling it on the Greek salad I made, which we both loved, or the roasted Brussels sprouts I made, which, well, one of us loved. I wondered if he considered that I might, right then, go into the kitchen and toast a piece of polenta bread and dot it with balsamic. I wondered if he was smiling.