When I was a kid my mom gave me a little Canada Dry Ginger Ale can. It wasn't a real soda can, but hollowed out so when you twisted the rim off, there was a neat little stash space inside.

I'm a little proud that I managed to smile and thank her, even though my spoilt ass would have preferred a Nintendo game, but I knew she saw right through me. As a 5-year-old it was one of the first times I realized what "it's the thought that counts" really meant.

I treasured that soda can. And I never stashed anything illicit in it. I treasured it because my mom meant for me to like it. And years later, she randomly lamented that it was a stupid gift, and there was seemingly nothing I could do to convince her what it meant to me. And it hurt me so much that I couldn't convince her otherwise.

It was lost in one of many moves our family made. And the sadness I felt losing that fake ginger ale can sat equal to the sweet Power Rangers laser-gun-that-morphed-into-a-knife that also fell by the way side (fuck you, United Movers, but not really because you guys worked really hard).

In the end, my mom was kinda right. It was a pretty silly gift to give to a 5-year-old who never had anything to conceal. But it meant so much to me, and no words will have her convinced. My heart beats in a strange way when I think about it or see a can of Canada Dry Ginger Ale, which may just be me selectively noticing my arrhythmia. But I don't think so.

I love you, mom.