Pam Laughlin

The Shear Joy of It

I am sixteen. It’s my birthday and my mother hands me a wrapped package. I tug at the curled ribbon, coaxing it to a corner so I can slide it off, but the knot is too tight, unwilling to budge. She hands me a knife and I release it, the ribbon falling to the floor. I pull away the wrapping paper to reveal a 12 x 9 inch gray box with the name Fiskar plastered across the front in white.