Kimberlee K.

For years now my family has gone all out on Christmas cards.

Whether it’s choosing a theme (Giants football, thrifted Christmas sweaters, USA) or just choosing a strategy (making a family pyramid, mimicking the Brady Bunch, designing a crossword puzzle) we try to create something that will both celebrate the year and make people smile.

But we’re often running behind.  

Around the end of October, we’ll try to start thinking of ideas— “let’s get on it early!”—but then we blink and it’s suddenly December 12^th and the Christmas card printers start sending “LAST CHANCE” emails.

One year, I was tracking our order every few minutes, frustrated that no amount of refreshing the FedEx page could get our cards out of Missouri. And while I knew everything would be fine—the world wouldn’t stop spinning if our cards didn’t go out before Christmas—I was still trying to make it happen.  

So when the cards arrived on the 18th, my sister and I went over to our parents’ house to help get them out.

“I’m so excited to see these!” my mom said, setting herself up in the assembly line.   

But when I pulled the plastic wrapped cards out of the box I saw…a stranger.

“Who is….” I started.

“What’s wrong?” my sister asked, seeing my face.

“It’s not us, it’s a woman.”

I showed the cards to my family and we all gaped, confused at first, but then panicked.

If these are here, where are OUR cards?

We sat down at the computer and chatted with the printer’s customer service, who put in a corrective order right away. Then we sat, stunned, resigned, and turned on a movie.

It wasn’t until a few hours later, when we were recounting the story to my dad, that we returned to the box of cards. And it was at second glance that we realized how iconic they were.

The woman stood in a black velvet dress with Christmas trees embroidered into the skirt.  Holiday décor adorned the walls behind her, and she smiled proudly at the camera in her three-picture series.

“Wishing you a wonderful holiday season, and a fantastic new year. All the best, Denise.”

Denise was the lone subject in the picture. There were no other family members, no pets, no punchline. It was just Denise, thriving, and sending those she loved well wishes.

That holiday season, Denise joined our family. We put her on the wall with the rest of our Christmas cards, we cheersed to her with holiday drinks and pointed to her in conversation as if she wasn’t a stranger, but rather a close relative who couldn’t make it to Christmas that year.

Somehow, Denise seemed to represent something—at least to me.

I didn’t know the life she had lived. I didn’t know if she’d been married or had any children. I didn’t know if she made those cards every year or if she’d just decided—whether out of newfound confidence or perhaps in the shadow of grief—to send them out for the first time.

She said, here I am!

She said, everyone’s doing cards, and so am I!

She said, All the best, because you KNOW I’m living my best life. 

So every Christmas, when I turn on a holiday movie and unbox my decorations, reminiscing over each ornament and trinket, I eventually find Denise—her card is tucked in with the collection of my favorites—and I put her on the fridge.

All the best, she says at the bottom, and I cheers my glass of wine.

All the best to you, Denise.