I inherited a box of greeting cards when I was little. When I say “inherited,” I mean that I actually just found the box occupying a small corner of my closet one day and asked Mom if I could keep it and its contents. She obliged, probably because the cards inside were homeless for a reason. Some were too specific, “Congratulations on your Wedding Anniversary” and on the inside, “41 years and still going strong.” Some were too vague, an illustrated pastel picture of a baby napping on a bed of tulips. And sometimes there were just too many: “You’re Invited to a Baby Shower” and on the inside, “Who:__When:__ Where:__Please RSVP before: November 1989.”
None of this mattered because I cherished my box of greeting cards and their mismatched envelopes. I sent them eagerly every chance that I got. When spring rolled around, for example, I could send Easter greetings. “Thanks for the two dollar bill Grams, here’s a napping tulip baby for you!” It gave me a sense of independence to send official cards in the mail.
A lot of the inherited cards contained humor that went over my head, punchlines that didn’t make sense at the time or at least didn’t make sense coming from a fourth grader. It’s felt like forever but over the years I’ve waited to be old enough to send certain ones. Including this one.
Happy birthday my friend. Soon we’ll be living on our own… We do?
Graduated college… We did? Getting married… You are? Shut up. Where has the time gone?