The scrumpled tissue of love

A friend this week said “Nothing says love like a scrumpled half used tissue.” And she’s right.

Not for me gifts wrapped in cellophane – I never did get the thrill of new and shiny. I’ve much preferred the scarf a friend thought would suit me better than it did her. And I’ve mentioned before some of the best gifts I’ve ever had, all the unexpected and unasked for signs of love and attention  – the vicar who carried my shopping, the Health Visitor who lightly touched my arm as she asked how I was; the cheese on toast, brownies, brews, made when people could see I was in need and knew they could help meet that need.

The cup of tea made by my daughter with a used sugary teabag, the pictures made by my son with such enthusiasm there are smudged fingerprints around the edge.

And then the tissues. That sharing of people that never fails to be a humbling privilege – the time a friend unburdened something they’d never told anyone before; the times people phone up and are so tearful it’s hard to make out all that is said; the moments I’m asked to scratch a back, or have been able to wipe up the blood. And the scrumpled tissue of love.