We were married for 37 years and always sent cards.
Sim One didn't make it to year 38.
My beloved died on May 2. Two nights before, she'd leapt screaming from our bed, speared through the skull by a massive stroke.
Later that dawn, her scans showed the damage. Her brain was a bowl of mashed potatoes. Left on the counter: a loose cluster of functioning organs. But no real Simone.
So it's up to me now, as the last one sleeping at our rural address, to create our latest holiday card.
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For decades, Simone and I made holiday cards together. It was a seasonal household hobby (sometimes more a chore than a hobby, if we'd waited too long). We filled binders with examples of our lousy efforts.
The Golden Rule: avoid any reference to a specific religion.
So Simone and I sent what we saw as "any-and-all" holiday cards. Whatever holiday you loved, celebrated, honored, respected, felt nostalgia for, bought for, cooked for, endured, feared, despised or simply knew ... Simone and I hoped to drop a calm, cleansed and thoughtful penny into your holiday piggybank.
To say hi.
To say we see you.
To say we hug you.
To say good luck — since who doesn't need that?