Five Years a Writer

Another weekday and it’s empty again. The mailbox, that is.  I saw the postal carrier go down the street and, as he so often does, he just kept on going. No detour up our front path. Nothing to deliver to us. Again. Oh well. At least it means no boring white No. 10 business envelopes to deal with.   But it also means nothing to deal with. No unexpected and enticing hand-addressed mail. No intriguing coloured envelopes. No obvious card to be relished in the opening. Mostly, this lack doesn’t bother me, doesn’t weigh on me. But at this time year, when — at least in theory — cards of greeting are flying across the country and around the world, the empty mailbox is rather a drag. A stark reminder that, ahem, I, myself, have not consistently sent out Christmas cards and, so, have no good reason to expect any in return.   Please: This is not a plea for them. This is simply me admitting to myself that I am, this season, quite deliberately giving up even the pretence of sending ...