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WALKING IN THE SNOW
(Part 2)
I could not wait to get to the card. It is not every day that I get handwritten cards. Only two friends send me one for my birthday, but there is only one person who would work long to make it perfect.
My daughter.
No technology, no ready-made words can be a substitute for something written just for you. It has been touched, kissed, decorated with love. It carries the words and the humor from the days she was a child. It is perfectly imperfect in the shapes and the almost straight lines, just the way our lives have been through all the ups and downs in USA. Only we can feel the importance of each word; each seemingly regular sentence. These are our short love letters.
The cards do not come only on Valentine's day. If love is waiting to be shown on only one day of the year, do we live without love the rest of the time? Her cards are beautifully- written from the left corner to the very bottom. No one, but we two can decode them.
This is what brings the joy - our own special lingo.
I am not so good at all of this. My handwriting is illegible. My hand is shaking. My art skills are limited. I go to Hallmark, sit on the floor after I have grabbed as many cards as possible without raising suspicion about my sanity. Then, I start reading and reading. The one I can work with always comes. I can scratch off words, add a made-up word, cut the corners with scissors, everything I need until it looks and sounds like me.
We never know when the card will come. It never comes on time. But when it comes, it is a holiday for the soul.
If a day comes I have to buy a card from a store without saying a thing, it will mark a sad day in my life.
