Amazingly enough, Christmas is over...already! So much rushing, rushing, preparing, and stressing, all slamming smack into the big day. And despite the fact that most of the things that were planned for the span of time between Christmas Eve day and Christmas Day didn't quite go off as anticipated, things happened the way they needed to. My hard and fast schedule melted into a warm, sweet formlessness––like a bar of chocolate left too close to a firelight. The timeline was crumpled and tossed out with the discarded wrapping paper, and the simplicity of being together was savored with as much appreciation as the finest wine.
Even without the exchange of wrappable gifts, the day itself was something to treasure, something that cannot be recaptured or recreated. There were so many nuances, so many emotions, so many memories that were reflected upon. There were bittersweet moments of the reminders of the people that have been lost, the seemingly small differences that––taken together––were heavy realizations that some things will never be the same.
For me, one of the most noticeable came with the absence of a card.
The card never came in May. It was the first, and will, of course, only be the first of many. It was lost in the shuffle, a forgotten piece of printed cheer that would have assured me that things were normal, that the year was taking its forward march. That the new number declaring my age had not gone unnoticed or uncelebrated by the grandmother who had always taken such care to send cheery little notes and cards at the appropriate points throughout the year: Easter, Valentine's Day, birthdays, Halloween, Christmas.
There was no Happy Birthday, Granddaughter! resting happily in my mailbox, no phone call with her voice on the end of the line wishing happiness on my day. No reminder that I had been born on a Spaghetti Night, thirty years ago.
As September rolled around, the next card noticeably, undeniably absent from my tiny mailbox was simply a card that should have held a check, carefully calculated and designated for my treasured and much-anticipated task of playing Santa's helper. She would have scrawled a note of thanks, each slant and curve of her cursive script so familiar to my eyes. She would have reminded me that Christmas was coming through the simple posting of that note. And before she closed the card and licked the flap of the envelope, she would have penned words to remind me that she loved me.
That card was, in the end, replaced by a plain envelope with a scrap of paper and a quick note in the masculine strokes of my grandfather's handwriting. Chicken scratch formed by years of scribbling figures and plans and signatures. The handwriting of a man accustomed to working with his hands. The writing of a man who was now tasked with things that his wife had so long attended to. The note, as always, thanked me for the shopping I was about to do. But it was in that unfamiliar hand, one that will now replace the feminine script of a woman who so dedicated herself to sending all those missives, those Hallmark moments and silly reminders of the progression of the year. Most of those cards will never be sent again...and it is that realization that seems most devastating.
In a way, though, it also serves as a reminder. That we should take notice, that we should pay attention and not let the year slip by. That the simple sending of a note can be such an important way to say, "I love you. You matter."
Pick up a pen and say I love you.
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