the annual York Family Christmas Gala. The envelope arrives every year on
December 1 like clockwork, my mother’s commitment to tradition and
etiquette unmatched.
I place it in my bag, taking care not to bend the cardstock. As much as I
wish it didn’t, it matters to me that I received an invitation. It means I’m
still considered part of the family, despite how strained our relationship has
become.
I haul myself off the sidewalk, untwist the wayward garland from my leg,
and collect the bags that landed in the bush next to my railing. I always
have my decorations up by the time my mother’s invitation arrives. My own
little tradition for my favorite time of the year. I spent the weekend digging
everything out of my attic and arranging it in appropriate piles, not that it
matters now. The garland artfully looped around my banister is hanging
limp. The giant poinsettia I spent twenty-six minutes adjusting just so is
missing a petal.
I fix the edge of the oversize flower so the brand new bare spot is hidden.
“There,” I say. “Good as new.”
My aunt Matilda used to tell me there are few things that can’t be solved
with a shift in perspective and some shiny new trinkets. I’ve applied that to
my own life by buying obnoxiously oversize Christmas decorations. I try to
find the silver lining and when all else fails, there’s always a blueberry
Danish from the tiny bakery down the street to chase the bad mood away.
I don’t like focusing on the bad. I never have.
So, I don’t.
“Okay there, Harry?” A shadow falls over the short wooden fence that
circles my property. Darryl, the postman assigned to our block, is doing his
best to peer over the top of the boxes stacked in his arms. “All good,
Darryl.” I limp over and meet him at the fence, taking the top package off
his massive stack. He grins in relief, his thick mustache hiding most of his
mouth, but not the deep smile lines by his eyes.
“How’d you know that was about to fall?”
“Probably because you can’t see around it.” The tower in his hands
wobbles precariously, the bag over his shoulder bulging. I frown at it.
“Holiday rush? So soon?”
“Nah. I’m just correcting some misdirected mail.” He turns to look over
his shoulder. “I don’t know how I keep getting mixed up.” He’s been
getting mixed up for the duration of his career, delivering the wrong
