There’s no better feeling of love than opening the mailbox and finding a Christmas card, handwritten and bearing your name. If I were the Grinch, my heart would’ve melted right then and there. There’s a certain kind of magic in holding that sealed envelope in my hands — that sweet, childlike anticipation that makes it impossible to wait. I’ve opened plenty of cards standing right there by the mailbox, unable to resist.
By the time I’d get to the house, I’d already be studying the handwriting — sometimes elegant and careful, sometimes hurried and full of personality — but each one precious in its own way. My heart always warmed as I traced the letters with my fingers, opening the envelope as if it were the very first I’d ever received. I’ve always loved a personal note, something written just for me, a reminder that I was thought of during the most sacred season of the year.
I’ve saved every Christmas card I’ve ever received. They rest in special boxes among my decorations, and each December, when I unpack them, I take time to read a few. The ones that mean the most are the cards from those who are no longer here. Seeing their handwriting again, hearing their voices in my mind — it feels, for a brief moment, as if they’re sitting right beside me.
Every year since I can remember, my dad sent out Christmas cards. He would bribe me with free babysitting and a little Christmas cash if I’d address them for him. He always signed his name, sometimes adding a note, and I would sit for hours with stacks of envelopes and boxes beside me, my hand cramping as I wrote out each address. When the last one was sealed, stamped, and ready for the post office, I’d feel a quiet pride in the small mountain of holiday cheer we’d created together.
While I worked on his, I always wrote my own. My tradition was steeped in sentiment and ritual. I’d begin by putting on the Christmas music I grew up with — Frank Sinatra, Burl Ives, Bing Crosby, and Nat King Cole softly filling the room. I’d light a few scented candles, make a cup of tea or cocoa, and line up my calligraphy pens — each one dipped in a different shade of ink — along with extra envelopes for the inevitable smudges that come with being a left-handed writer.
No matter where I lived, there was always a fireplace. Even if it was mid-November and the air conditioner was still running, I’d light a fire anyway. It wasn’t about warmth — it was about atmosphere. I’d sit at my table, pen in hand, the soft glow of the fire flickering across the page, the scent of pine and cinnamon drifting through the room. I’d begin with one card at a time, finding just the right design for each person. Some were playful and full of whimsy; others were tender and deeply sentimental.
I would lose myself in the quiet rhythm of writing — sometimes for hours, sometimes well into the night. It was my peaceful time, my way of breathing in the season’s spirit of hope and love. I liked to think that maybe someone on my list needed that small reminder that they were remembered — that they mattered. And if I had your address, you were getting a card.
I’m ashamed to admit that last year, I didn’t send a single one. Each year, my list grows shorter, and the number I receive grows fewer still. It breaks my heart a little to see that tradition fading — that people aren’t as personal anymore. We live in an age of endless distractions and not enough time, myself included.
But I miss it. I miss that quiet connection — the thought, the pause, the love folded carefully into an envelope. Maybe it’s the world that’s changed, or maybe it’s just that we’ve forgotten the simple joy of reaching out with our own words and handwriting. Still, I believe in it — in the magic of a card chosen with care, in the ink that carries a little bit of our hearts across the miles.
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