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How you wanted that Transformer. Nothing was more important. You tore into one present after another. Maybe it’s this one. Maybe it’s this one. Maybe it’s THIS one. And it wasn’t just any Transformer. It was Scorponok, the big one that you could manipulate into an eight-legged arachnid or a towering warrior.

Your disappointment was palpable. So was our guilt. It’s a parent’s job to know what you want for Christmas and make Santa provide it. But we didn’t know, not from the list to Santa, or from what you said. You harbored this urge and said nothing. Maybe you thought it would make the possession all the more sweet. Who knows?

Not I, as I clear out the garage after your father dies. A widow now, i’m moving out of the house, out of the state, far away. What to take, what to sell, what to give away, what to dump? I find the box of Transformers and there he is — Scorponok, in his arachnid form, legs angled and pointing everywhere, mocking me. When did you finally get it? I can’t remember. I hope some kid will like it as I put it on the what-to-give-away pile.

Over the next few days, men in trucks come in succession to take away each pile. When the give-away man comes, he picks up the box with Transformers in magic marker on the top of the box. “Hey,” he says, “Transformers. I remember those. You should sell them. They’re worth a lot. What’ve you got in here?”

I tell him to open the box and he takes out the toys with the wonder of remembrance. He’s about my son’s age and nostalgia fills the garage. “Why don’t you take them?” I say. He shakes his head. “We’re not supposed to do that. I have to take them to the thrift store.” An honest man.

He loads them into the truck, still shaking his head at the remembered stories, finishes loading the truck, and disappears down the road. It all goes in the end, all those urges and wants, the toys, the cravings, even the beloved.