I finally got the cards started. The cards themselves are fully realized, corporeally existing, bearing individual proofs, visible to me, of the haste and trauma of their creation. "Thouth" jumped out at me first, the sign of not having time for a round of having the sisters look at it for me once. There's a small "f" that's partly obscured by the signatures (now ten or twelve years old). I hope I'm the only one who "notices" that the photos weren't really optimized this year. I just went with them the way they were, RGB, not CMYK. Not resized to the printed pixel. Just let it go as is, merry Christmas.
The labels exist, part of the same marathon session at Fedex (formerly Kinko's, copy shop of my single years), coping with recalcitrant machines and NOT adding to the burden of the two women doing all the work. They knew I was there and always came when they could, and I am genuinely grateful and told the one who checked me out that it had been easier than I was expecting. (I didn't mention that I almost got there the first time and couldn't find a mask in the car and went home for one.)
The postage exists. I waited in pleasant silence. Was there no background music at all? It was just a guy getting through a stack of packages and flats to go out, weighing each or whatever. I didn't watch him. There was one other guy in there, waiting quietly far in the rear, maybe pondering the steel gated area where lines wait for service during non-Sunday hours. I enjoyed that part. The envelopes were already home, left over from other years.
So I'm stuffing the envelopes first, manila-colored 6" x 9" ones. I'm very pleased to see that these are self-sealing, so I won't have to moisten any sponges this year. My first dry card day. There are three empty labels at the end, showing where I deleted an address for someone who'd died this year, and for whom no one else remains to open a card. My end-of-the-year reel of people who I've exchanged jokes with, run into here and there, gone to their house. Rest in peace, Howard. You were always smiling, and I think you always got a raw deal. Rest in peace, Terry. I was sad when Mary went, and now I'm sad again. Rest in peace, Dad. I remember you.
And here's a label for my oldest friend, by which I mean the human I'm not related to who I've known the longest. I met and played with him when I was almost three, and the last time I saw him was 1990 or earlier, and I remember when he was impressed that I knew Photoshop (he's a painter and digital artist) his annual cards have been a triumph of impossible photorealism for years, but I haven't gotten one in a while. Three years? Five years? I don't know how many years things are. I consider peeling the label off and discarding it, or writing a note. I expect I'll just send a card and hope for a Hallmark moment.
Back to the envelopes.
ps: Holy cow, I already have a label that says "christmas holiday death."
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