
My birthday approaches. I’m looking forward to a few birthday cards. I don’t know how many cards are sent these days, actually sent by post. People tell me the cost of postage puts them off, which I find odd, given the service the stamp endorses. Someone takes the card, this actual card and it’s borne across the country, pushed through the letter box, lands with a slap on the hall floor. From my hands to his, or hers, or yours. Inside is a handwritten message, clumsily and untidily written – or eloquent and neat – and the very shapes of the letters put me in mind of the sender. This takes more effort than a handful of emojis on a screen. Happy Birthday. Merry Christmas. Deepest Sympathy. Whatever the message, it says most of all ‘I thought of you.’ We put cards on display, sometimes keep them long after they are taken down. They are a tangible demonstration of connection. They emanate a small glow of benevolence.
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