I
      SELL
      CHRISTMAS
      CARDS
     
     
      A
      SARAH
      MURPHY
     
    
   
   
    
     
      I
      sell
      Christmas
      cards.
     
    

    
     
      The
      suburb
      mall
      rents
      out
      a
      booth
      in
      the
      centre
      hall.
     
     
      The
      booth
      is
      brightly
      painted
      with
      the
      Christmas
      red,
      green
     
     
      and
      white,
      and
      clashes
      with
      the
      flaking
      peach
      colour
      of
      the
     
     
      neighbouring
      jewellery
      store.
      The
      old
      man,
      the
      owner,
      the
     
     
      only
      employee
      of
      the
      jewellery
      store
      sets
      the
      time
      of
      the
      dec-
     
     
      orative
      clocks,
      the
      grandfather
      clocks,
      the
      coo-coo
      clocks,
     
     
      every
      afternoon
      at
      two
      o’clock
      according
      to
      radio
      time.
      I
      have
     
     
      never
      witnessed
      the
      sale
      of
      one
      of
      the
      old
      man’s
      clocks.
      He
     
     
      loves
      them
      too
      much,
      polishes
      them,
      whispers
      to
      them,
     
     
      speaks
      of
      them
      as
      progeny,
      scaring
      agitated
      Christmas
      shop-
     
     
      pers
      away
      from
      the
      display.
      Instead,
      townspeople
      turn
      to
     
     
      cheap
      trinkets
      deprived
      of
      value
      or
      the
      less
      bit
      interest
      or
     
     
      allure.
      The
      old
      man
      is
      amiable
      to
      parting
      with
      these.
      They
     
     
      will
      take
      their
      place
      beneath
      the
      tree,
      be
      unwrapped,
      mar-
     
     
      velled
      at
      with
      insincerity,
      and
      be
      returned
      to
      their
      box,
      set
      ina
     
     
      dresser
      drawer
      and
      left
      there
      between
      socks
      and
      other
      person-
     
     
      al
      items
      until
      they
      are
      found
      and
      acknowledged,
      commemo-
     
    

    
     
      rating
      Holiday
      Seasons
      past.
     
    

    
     
      I
      sell
      Christmas
      cards.
     
    

    
     
      I
      sell
      Christmas
      cards
      for
      charity.
      Most
      of
      the
      cards
      I
     
     
      sell
      are
      blank.
      Maybe
      that
      explains
      why
      the
      townspeople
      do
     
     
      not
      coo
      at
      them
      as
      they
      do
      for
      the
      big
      card
      company
      cards.
     
     
      My
      cards
      invite
      thought
      and
      sincerity.
      I
      think
      townspeople
     
     
      fear
      thought
      and
      sincerity.
      It
      would
      be
      sacrilegious
      to
      go
     
     
      beyond
      the
      polite
      but
      insignificant,
      “Holiday
      wishes
      from
      all
     
     
      of
      us.
      .
      -”
      or
      the,
      “Have
      a
      Merry
      Christmas
      and
      a
      Happy
      New
     
     
      Year.”
      What
      message
      graced
      the
      cover
      of
      the
      first
      Christmas
     
     
      card?
      And
      what
      if
      cards
      were
      no
      longer
      sold
      with
      greetings?
     
     
      Children
      are
      always
      so
      eager
      to
      pick
      out
      cards
      for
      their
      par-
     
     
      ents.
      Husbands
      are
      always
      so
      undecided
      when
      picking
      out
     
     
      cards
      for
      their
      wives.
      I
      like
      to
      help
      them.
     
    

    
     
      I
      sell
      Christmas
      cards.
     
    

    
     
      ‘My
      grandmother
      keeps
      every
      Christmas
      card
      she
     
    
   
   
    
     
      receives.
      My
      grandparents
      ran
      a
      foster
      home
      for
      several
     
     
      years.
      Almost
      a
      hundred
      children
      ran
      through
      the
      halls
      of
      my
     
     
      grandparents’
      house
      at
      one
      time
      or
      another.
      My
      grandmother
     
     
      receives
      hundreds
      of
      cards
      every
      Christmas,
      from
      her
      chil-
     
     
      dren
      and
      from
      other
      townspeople’s
      children.
      She
      keeps
      them
     
     
      in
      shoe
      boxes
      in
      the
      hallway
      closet.
      Most
      are
      of
      similar
      shape
     
     
      and
      message,
      some
      are
      even
      identical,
      yet
      to
      her
      they
      are
      all
     
     
      different,
      unique,
      and
      therefore
      they
      are
      treasured.
      Together
     
     
      they
      document
      part
      of
      her
      and
      my
      grandfather’s
      life.
      They
     
     
      commemorate
      not
      only
      Christmases
      past,
      but
      birthdays,
      first
     
     
      days
      of
      school,
      Thanksgivings,
      Halloweens,
      Valentine
      Days,
     
     
      broken
      hearts,
      scholastic
      achievement,
      friendships,
      and
      all
     
     
      the
      other
      forgotten
      moments
      of
      the
      lives
      of
      these
      children
     
     
      within
      the
      wall
      of
      her
      home.
      Until
      recently
      she
      replied
      to
     
     
      every
      card
      she
      received.
      “Why?,”
      I
      would
      ask
      her.
      “To
      thank
     
     
      them
      for
      their
      love,
      their
      laughs,”
      she
      would
      answer.
      “To
     
     
      thank
      them
      for
      sharing
      their
      childhood
      with
      your
      grandfather
     
     
      and
      I.”
      Now
      my
      mother
      and
      I
      help
      her
      with
      her
      Christmas
     
     
      Cards.
     
    

    
     
      I
      sell
      Christmas
      Cards.
     
    

    
     
      I
      once
      sent
      a
      Christmas
      card
      to
      a
      boy,
      a
      friend.
      “Big
     
     
      Love”
      proclaimed
      the
      card,
      opening
      up
      to
      reveal
      the
      formula-
     
     
      ic
      season’s
      wishes.
      I
      don’t
      remember
      what
      I
      wrote
      in
      the
      card.
     
     
      Its
      message
      seemed
      appropriate
      at
      the
      time,
      but
      I
      don’t
      think
     
     
      the
      boy
      understood.
      Maybe
      I
      should
      have
      sent
      a
      blank
      card.
     
     
      Maybe
      I
      should
      have
      written
      my
      own,
      sincere
      Christmas
     
     
      wish.
      I
      still
      see
      the
      boy
      now
      and
      then,
      but
      our
      words
      are
      usu-
     
     
      ally
      as
      polite
      and
      deprived
      of
      sincerity
      as
      the
      words
      in
      the
     
     
      Christmas
      cards
      I
      sell.
     
    

    
     
      I
      sell
      Christmas
      cards.
     
    

    
     
      But
      I
      don’t
      think
      I
      will
      be
      sending
      Christmas
      cards
     
     
      this
      year.
      I
      have
      grown
      to
      dislike
      the
      taste
      of
      the
      glue
      on
      the
     
     
      envelope
      and
      on
      the
      stamp.
      I
      have
      grown
      to
      dislike
      the
      after-
     
     
      taste
      of
      Christmas
      wishes.