It has been almost a year since my Aunt D’thea was killed in a car accident and my relatives in Canada have been going through her possessions as they prepare her house for sale. A lot of things were thrown out or given away; my cousin saved a few mementos and offered some items to me—prefacing her offer with an acknowledgement that I am actively “anti-stuff.” It has taken years for us to reach that understanding; I’ve moved three times in as many years and each time I unloaded gifts that were given with love but without consideration of my particular preference. My mother agreed to make a donation in my name years ago and that meant a lot to me; my friends respect my wishes and only give things that I can consume or that will expire (chocolate or flowers or tea). Other folks do what they want to do and I act accordingly (Goodwill, regifting, or garbage). Gift-giving is complicated. I’ll always remember my father insisting that a funeral wasn’t about the deceased—it was for those left behind and so *they* got to decide how they wanted to mourn. I think that’s absurd, especially if someone makes arrangements before they die; their final wishes should be honored. For some folks, the same principle applies to gifts—it’s not really about what the recipient wants or needs or requests. Giving a gift is an opportunity to put the giver’s needs first. Over the weekend I had to find seven receptacles for an online theater workshop; I had six bowls but needed one more and so emptied out a small beaded basket in which I store jewelry that I never wear. In it I found a badly tarnished brooch that another aunt gave me almost twenty years ago. I was heading to Africa for the first time and she wanted me to have a reminder of home; I wore it proudly while I was there and in the years that followed, but at some point it wound up in my little basket along with the many silver bangles I once loved but no longer wear. Why did I hold onto this brooch when I gladly got rid of so many other gifts? Maybe because it’s small or because I love my aunt (though I’ve happily parted with gifts from other beloved relatives). Perhaps it’s because that failed trip to Djibouti left me feeling so disconnected; my father had just died and I gave up my Brooklyn apartment to teach at a new university that turned out to be nonexistent. Adrift, I flew back to Toronto, moved in with my mother for six months, and wrote a memoir about loss. I cleaned the little brooch and pinned it to my coat yesterday; my aunt’s thoughtful gift continues to operate according to her original intention—it reminds me that I come from a particular place and people. My birthday’s coming up and my uncle sent the loveliest letter that contained a photograph of my older sister as a toddler, a picture of my great-grandparents’ barn, and a shot of them using the tools needed to cut and measure the beams back in 1910. He also included a tribute to my grandmother that I wrote for her 90th birthday celebration. I recycled part of it for my writer’s statement but the rest I had completely forgotten about…it still rings true, though, and I’m so glad I was able to put into words just how much she meant to me. How did my tribute wind up with my uncle? Perhaps he, too, was tasked with going through her things after she passed and felt it was worth saving. Someday I’ll have to think more about the way gifts circulate and land back in the giver’s lap…