I undid the ribbon on the gift-
box and it must have been a load-
bearing ribbon because
the gift imploded. This is also
the nature of a secret, which
is something structural and
existent until it’s revealed.
Not to say the gift was a secret
but it was dropped off at my door
while I was asleep, with a note
that read: “your holic.”
Holic isn’t a word as far as I—
or the online dictionary I use—
know, but it could be a contraction
of “alcoholic,” or an attempt
at the adjectival form of “hole.” Or
it could be the Bosphorus inlet of Haliç,
The Golden Horn. It just plumb
crumpled in front of me, leaving
nothing to attest for its entirety
but the cryptic note. The writer
might’ve stopped after
making an error, either by duress
or apathy; maybe he/she intended
to write “your holiness …”
The extravagance of the bow
might rule out apathy.
There’s a lady who’s always
walking about the apartment
complex asking for a light, and she
calls me a saint when I offer.
That might explain the duress.
I think she’s on something most
of the time. I’ve never seen
anything quite like it before, the density
of the imploded gift was so great,
it rolled off the table and fell through
the floorboards. I went to go check
on my downstairs neighbour, to see
if she was okay, and if she could
return my gift ball, but she wasn’t home.
In fact, her apartment too had
imploded, as had the vacancy which
it left behind. Come to think of it,
my life is full of these instances.