I have a deep, dark confession to make:
I didn’t send Christmas cards this year.
I had good intentions. I even had a few false starts. But it just didn’t happen.
I’ve sent them out every year since we were married. Owen’s logic: “We HAVE to send cards out. People need to know that we’re still together, and that they didn’t give us wedding presents in vain.” And then there were pictures of our kids, and how would anyone possibly make it through the year without one of those? And the year I’d lost the weight: damned right everyone was going to see our family picture that year.
But this year, there was no burning impetus to get cards out. So I didn’t.
As the cards trickled into our house, though, I started to feel bad.
I’d forgotten the old people.
Great aunts, former neighbors, etc., with whom we’d always exchanged this once a year correspondence. As I opened their cards, read notes in shaky handwriting, all I could think was, “Crap! What if they die before I get a chance to send them another card?” And did they think I just forgot about them, that they weren’t important, all of a sudden?
Through a series of coincidences, I got a chance to talk to my Uncle Norm the other night. Uncle Norm isn’t really my uncle, but he was at our Easter table a lot, and one year he drove 3 hours to dress up as Santa for me on Christmas Day. I love him. But I didn’t send him a card this year.
“Ginny! It’s so good to talk to you! How are you, darlin’?”
“Good, Uncle Norm. So glad I could talk to you too.”
“Oh, sweetie, we got your card, and your family is just so beautiful…”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him there was no card this year.
I got my reprieve, courtesy of an old guy’s memory loss.
And I think I’m sending some New Year’s cards, this year.