Christmas Cards and Death

I’m not a fan of Christmas cards. A few years ago, I stopped writing them and I was happier. It also means that  I received less, ending the need for cardboard tree shaped card holder or a washing line and tiny plastic red and green card pegs. Then my parents died and I became the oldest. I felt it was my responsibility to keep in contact. So I bought a pack of cards. I remember Mum sitting down in the evenings in the run up to Christmas with simmering frustration that even a glass of Harvey’s Bristol Cream couldn’t soothe.

When I die if I find myself being forced to write Christmas cards then I will know I’m in hell. 

I’m trying.

It’s a minefield of social etiquette. What do you write? Should you acknowledge the death? Is it alright to celebrate in a happy way when you are mostly sad? The Victorians had the perfect card for the occasion. 

Cards have been arriving at Mum and Dad’s house. Some to me from people who don’t realise I haven’t lived at home for thirtyish years and some for my sister, who is living there. The other day there was a card to Mum and Dad. My sister hadn’t opened it. My instinct of being the oldest one who had to deal with these things kicked in. “I’m going to have to send a card back and break the news,” I said.  We opened the card.

“Can you read that name?” I asked my sister. 

We looked at it from several angles. We tipped our heads, turned the card round, and squinted. We tried several names out but none of them seemed to fit and none sounded like anyone we knew.

I thought this was a funny story but now I’ve written it down it just seems sad.we laughed though.  It’s probably the way I’ve written it, which may be because this blog is brought to you by one extremely tired music teacher: a music teacher who is so tired she tried to kiss a parent yesterday. 

The choir had just finished their last gig of the year. We sang in the High Street to a few of our parents. It was lovely; no pressure; just being outside bringing some festive cheer but as soon as they had finished I suddenly felt all my energy go. The children lined up and the parents said goodbye, feeling very excited about their last afternoon of freedom. The parent standing next to me puckered up and said to her child, “Gis us a kiss then,” and so I nearly did. I had to apologise. “I’m sorry, you didn’t mean me. I’m just so tired.” I think she saw the funny side.