Return to Sender
The first one lands discreetly in an avalanche of mail on the foyer rug. I weed it out from the rest and leave it on the table unopened.
Later, that afternoon when we cross paths in the break room (our kitchen), I mention it to my wife.
Who’s it from?
I didn’t look.
You’re in denial?
Kind of.
Well get to it this weekend.
With that she presses the brew button on the coffeemaker and the soulless drone punctuates our dialog.
That’s what we said last week, that we would get around to it. Then a boozy Friday night laid waste to our productive weekend ambitions and we rain checked all chores on the family Trello board. So it goes.
The card portrays all the usual suspects. Husband, wife, two kids - all adorned in farmers market chic attire. The outfits suggest that minimal effort went into their selection. (Narrator: The outfits were planned for weeks.) A well groomed dog looks stoically, stubbornly away from the camera. Blazing fall foliage backdrops it all.
Happy Holidays from our family to yours!
This is a Christian family. I know they do Christmas. They played it safe this year. Good call, I guess. The world is on eggshells anyway. (And really, after the last four years, to hell with Christians.)
Slowly my smile flattens and yields to a grimace. I look closer at the parental mugs and wonder which took the wheel on the season's greetings this year. My money is on her. She can be a ballbuster. He rarely does anything right. He gave up on pushing back years ago. It has a lot to do with his being a degenerate womanizer before he met her. She’s punishing him and he believes he deserves it. That’s their formula. He has vented as much to me countless times on many barstools. I hope this year has brought them balance. For a closer look at his eyes I attempt to stretch the photo with my thumb and forefinger. When it doesn’t work, I sigh and remind myself to start that goddamned digital diet soon.
I set it aside and put my head in my hands, pressing hard on my eyes to uncork a burst of blurred stars under the lids. It takes very little to get me flustered, not just in 2020. Even something so well-intentioned as a holiday card can open a spiral of doubt and guilt - the first card of the season especially.
It’s been a hard fucking year. Understatement, I know. Big picture, my family is wildly fortunate. We survived with our physical health intact. Everyone seems to be mentally fit as well. Well, not me. I’m a slight mess but do a serviceable job containing it.
Truth is, in our nearly 20 years doing it, I can’t recall the production bringing me joy. It mostly felt like a chore, requisite posturing, a box to be checked, a projection of sanity at a time of year when I tend to be at full scale war with my demons. I wish it wasn’t so.
My best guess is that we won’t send cards this year. I’ll leave the door cracked for my wife to find last minute inspiration and enlist me, but my vote is to punt. I’m too tired to fake it.
Zero judgment to those who remain dedicated to the tradition. I’m happy that friends and family can convey some normalcy. I’m envious, really.
None of this is to say art direction and copy won’t be scrutinized. They will. Sorry.