6 o'clock on Christmas Eve, I get a call from Edward, my best friend,
telling me to look outside my front door. There I find one of his self-designed cards
that we spent Sunday evening printing. That made me happy.
When I was out with him doing his Christmas shopping, he coyly tried to add some
picture frames to the basket. It was pretty clear that they were intended for me, as
earlier I had been complaining that I couldn't find the kind I needed to house some of
the pictures that I have of him. Hoping I wasn't wrong, I obliquely thanked him but
asked him to put them back. But when he's spoken over the last two days of his card
list, I was silently hoping that I was on it.
Upon reading it, my elation so eclipsed the happiness of just a few moments before
as to make it nearly invisible by comparison. The message he wrote was so sweet, it blew
me away. That card is the best present I've ever gotten. I was leaving a message on
his phone, telling him how much he means to me, when I suddenly found myself
tearing up and barely able to speak. He is such an incredible person, and I am so
lucky to be his friend.
He had said that he doesn't write much on holiday cards because people don't really
appreciate them, and certainly don't keep them. My task now is to somehow get this
one laminated or encased in transparent aluminum or something, so I can read the inside and enjoy the
design on the outside for at least the next twenty years.