Illustration by Alex Deadman-Wylie
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My dad passed away unexpectedly, and my mom followed 10 years later. After each loss, sympathy cards arrived in waves. I kept every one of them, sliding them into a large decorative box.
Over the years, the box grew heavier as I continued to fill it with cards received, birthday, anniversary, holiday and milestone cards, both special and ordinary.
Recently, I pulled the box from the closet where it had sat undisturbed for years and wiped the dust from the lid. Sitting on the couch, I took a deep breath and emptied hundreds of cards onto the cushions beside me, a Pandora’s box of memories.
My parents belonged to a generation that treated cards as miniature letters. They never simply signed their names. My father, a poetic wordsmith, filled his cards with rhyming verses offering gentle advice for his youngest daughter. In a Sweet Sixteen card, he wrote: “Have the strength and courage to face the obstacles with mighty kicks, and have the wisdom to choose the right track, free of nasty freaks!” It made me smile; such was my dad, a no-nonsense straight shooter.
Opinion: Sending a greeting card used to mean something. I miss those days
My mom, on the other hand, wrote long wishes for happiness and health, reminding me to eat an apple and take good care of myself, and ending unfailingly with “Lots of Love, your Ma.”
Somewhere in the pile, a long-forgotten musical birthday card from my mom grabbed my attention. Covered in bright pink tulips, it opened accordion-style into a bouquet that must have played “Happy Birthday.” Now it emitted a persistent electronic chirp like a sick bird. No matter how firmly I pressed it closed, it would not stop chirping.
I was laughing and crying at the same time when my husband came into the room.
“What’s that sound?” he asked.
I told him and pointed to the pile of cards I had unearthed. Then I showed him the ones he had given me over the years, most of which featured puppies and various dog breeds, because he knows my weakness.
Early in our courtship, he had written long, ardent messages proclaiming his love and adoration for me. As the years passed, the notes grew significantly shorter, and then very familiar, and almost identical from one year to the next.
To be fair, my husband is better at expressing his love through actions rather than adjectives. If this is my greatest complaint, I am fortunate indeed. Eventually, we stopped exchanging cards altogether. I don’t remember the exact turning point, but I suggested that we stop buying store-bought cards and make our own on the computer.
That experiment did not last. He declared himself devoid of creative talent, and we eventually settled on a new system, only face-to-face proclamations.
In our 60s now, and married almost 34 years, we have extended that “no card” policy to the rest of the family. A phone call or text message would suffice.
Practicality played a role. Greeting cards today have become astonishingly expensive, barring those from the dollar store, which are still a good alternative.
Yet as I sorted through my box, practicality felt irrelevant. What I was so grateful for from my friends, family, acquaintances and colleagues, some I barely knew, was that they cared enough to send a card and share well-meaning wishes. Some about having strength, faith and staying positive and hopeful. These felt like life lessons and hugs to me.
A card can hold astonishing weight. It carries voices, intentions and a moment when someone took an interest in acknowledging you. It becomes, quietly, a record of being remembered, not in sweeping gestures, but in ink, in paper, in time taken.
I value and cherish every single one of those cards, but I wonder, too, what will become of them: will they be of any sentimental use to my husband or my nieces after I go? I know my husband has saved a few of the cards I gave him; I discovered them tucked in a drawer while searching for our passports.
Again, I see my parents’ beautifully looping, scripted handwriting and hold back my tears.
Suddenly, I noticed that the chirping had stopped. The living room fell quiet. I carefully placed the cards back into their box, closed the lid and returned it to the closet.
What’s in a card? Tender sentiments and voices preserved in paper, marking our life’s passages. I am not yet ready to let any of it go or be discarded.
Wendy Reichental lives in Montreal.