Earlier today I was in the curious position of having to buy a sympathy card on Christmas Eve. The adult son of an elderly couple I know died earlier this week. I only learned of it this morning while catching up on the week's newspapers. Cause of death was not listed, but the fact that he was my age gave me pause. I also felt a deep pain for his parents. To lose a child is every parent's worst nightmare. To do so Christmas week is unthinkably cruel.

I sketched out an itinerary of errands that began at the Hallmark store in Rindge. The center aisle, where the holiday cards were on display, was packed with shoppers presumably ambushed by an unexpected holiday greeting. But I had the other side of the display, where the sympathy cards were located, to myself. My presence there seemed to unnerve new arrivals to the store, as though it served as an unwelcome and untimely reminder of our mortality. This is the time of year to celebrate, to feast, to laugh and sing! And here I was with the bad manners to be browsing through cards dealing with death and loss. They seemed almost to be averting their eyes.

As I tried to find a card bearing a message that wasn't too ornate, overtly religious, or unctiously smarmy yet still spoke my heart, the electronic cacophany of those godawful musical Christmas cards collided with the lugubrious funereal lamentations I was reading.

"Deck the halls with boughs of holly, fa-la-la-la-la la-la-la-la!"

(With deepest sympathy in your hour of loss)

"Here comes Santa Claus, here comes Santa Claus, right down Santa Claus lane!"

(Just as your loved one is with God, so our thoughts are with you)

"Oh what fun it is to ride on a one-horse open sleigh-yay!"

(To let you know that our prayers are with you and your family)

I found two that spoke what I felt: "So much to say - so hard to find the words", and "Wishing you strength and peace in the days ahead." I went with the second one, concerned that the first might seem a little too much about me. I pushed through the revelers to the counter and handed the card to the cashier.

She took my money, bagged the card, and handed me my change. Then without missing a beat she gave me a big smile and chirped, "Have a great day, and a Merry Christmas!" I wondered if she'd even seen what it was I'd just purchased, or if she were just on autopilot. I smiled back and said "Thanks, same to you," and left the store a little bemused.

Tomorrow I will be laughing, drinking, and dining with my brother and his family, showing off my new 55-250 mm telephoto lens. Ed and Edith will be burying a son. I wish it weren't so. They will no doubt be surrounded by their other children, their grandchildren, and maybe a great-grandchild or two, but there won't be much laughter.

Ed, Edie: I'll drink a toast to you and your son. It's the very least I can do.

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Current Location: base camp
Current Mood: somber
Current Music: not at this time