He gave me a necklace as a gift. The book says there are only ten sentence patterns, but I see an eleventh sticking out of my mind. It repeats; I will always remember it. He gave me a necklace as a gift. He is my subject and object of my affections. I center around him like a planet around the sun or does he center around me? Gave is my verb and a dear term for charity. My eyes try to put an R after the G, making death stalk my gift. Me is my indirect object but isn’t so indirect to me. It shocks me how it floats under my verb, a dangling person. A, an article. Immaterial, or is it? The tongue trips over itself without this tiny word, the smallest word, a vital word. Necklace is my direct object and it is so strange. Neck, long and graceful, chopped and bloody. Lace, fine and wrapped, hardwork and intricate. As is my expletive and editable from a sentence. Put it on a dashed line on a teetering-tottering pedestal. Is it going to fall? A, again, pops into play. Do I say Aye or Ah? What does that choice say about me? I am pretentious or I am lazy. Gift is my object complement, with an E, not an I. This gift is a compliment to me. Gifts are always welcome unless they are grave. He gave me a necklace as a gift. And Oh! what a necklace. White gold chain thinly wraps around my neck, metal lace. Tiny pendant dangles above my breast, teetering between frontside and backside. Small diamonds surround a blue sapphire, elegant and delicate. It’s a treasure revolving around my neck and floating on my chest.