Joy. This one was simple. It slipped through
The old-fashioned brass mail slot in the wall.
Four happy selfie faces. No one I knew.
Was a time when it was a great obligation
And maybe a bit of fun, making or selecting
The cards, alone or with a partner, deciding
Which variants should go to which relatives,
Which distal kin or acquaintances to include,
The evening or two spent at a kitchen table,
Thumbing through the old address book,
Licking stamps, scrawling greetings, pausing
Over how much, how personal a message
To send, then waiting to count coup, to hang
The arriving cards over whatever passed
For a hearth, watching for any surprises
That might require a quick scramble to send
A card in return, in time. The last time
Was the Christmas after the last pregnancy
Had ended, the last try, when the wife
Who would be gone to the world and herself
Had herself less than three years to live.
That last time the cards went out with notes
Explaining and apologizing for the lack
Of festivities that year. By the next year,
Who cared? None were sent and few arrived.
New technologies and social media
Were killing the tradition anyway. New life,
As it will, eventually arrived, and by then
Things were handled differently. That, too,
Went by the by. Now was a frosty night,
After worlds and worlds beside, back beside
The receding lake, and no greetings expected,
But here were these faces, this unknown family
Of four slipping smiles through the wall, and
Later came a call from living daughter. Joy.
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