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, both special and ordinary.
Recently, I pulled the box from the closet. 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 filled his cards with rhyming verses offering gentle advice for his youngest daughter. My mom, on the other hand, wrote long wishes for happiness and health, ending unfailingly with "Lots of Love, your Ma."
I showed my husband the ones he had given me over the years. 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. Eventually, we stopped exchanging cards altogether. I don't remember the exact turning point, but I suggested that we stop buying store-bought cards. 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. Yet as I sorted through my box, practicality felt irrelevant. What I was so grateful for from my friends, family, acquaintances and colleagues, was that they cared enough to send a card and share well-meaning wishes.
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?
Again, I see my parents' beautifully looping, scripted handwriting and hold back my tears. 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.