I received a "Package from England" in the mail this week; a puffy brown envelope with my sister's recognizable chicken-scratch writing on the label; not so very different from the way our Mother's hieroglyphics used to look; although Mum did make it to the post office in a more timely fashion. I had an inkling as to the contents, having managed to connect with Sis in one of our "the planets have to be aligned just right for this to happen" phone calls recently. She had mentioned that she had a Christmas present lying around for me still (in May). I told her she shouldn't go to any trouble on my account, but she obviously did.
The contents of her gesture of sisterly love, in chronological order, were a heartfelt condolence card for the loss of my old dog. (Diva went to the rainbow bridge last August). Fiona had written, "It's not the full-stop at the end that counts, it is how good the book was and Diva's life has been a very good read."
The second card was one from the holidays season, with some very cute penguins in red wooly hats and, finally, to mark the birthday I had in March, a "so true, it's almost not funny" card about husbands who hear things in their own way.
I feel as though I've experienced a little time warp.