Card-writing was a ritual that involved the whole family. I recall resenting it somewhat; I hardly knew most of these aunts and uncles whose Christmases and New Years were going to be happy and merry at the expense of my hurting hand. Sometimes we got creative and stamped the cards with colourful stars or mistletoes. I used a glitter pen one year and I got glitter all over my hands for days. But I liked receiving cards so I didn’t complained much. (I think. I’d have to check with mum on that.)

In Hong Kong, our windows were covered with security metal bars disguised as decorations. We used to string cards all along it, and watch as our collection grow. Many came from names I didn’t recognise; some of them, mum would look at for a long time before hanging up. Our neighbours across the street would do the same thing. The side of the building was a wonderful display of fire hazard throughout December.

Slowly, the strings of paper cards dwindled. We stopped sending them at some point. I think it was the year we moved to Canada. We sent out e-mails and e-cards instead. Eventually we stopped sending those too.

M and I sent out Christmas letters this year. We printed most of them on card stock and wrote a few special ones by hand (like the one we sent to Gooma and M’s mum and grandmother). Included were some photos that were taken by talented Marlis Funk. I don’t know if the recipients shared the same feeling of specialness, but if even a handful of them did, I did good.