For Christmas, I gave some of my daughters mail. I spent money on cards made by friends, and preaddressed them, with stamps already affixed. Then I took them back. 

They looked puzzled, but I explained that I would be writing to them more, because finding something in your mailbox when you live far from home is a sweet pleasure. One reached over to give me a hug. While she was still on this side of the ocean, she could. 

It strikes me as a marvelous bargain, really. A round sticker is payment enough for a fire brigade of carriers, both human and not, to ensure the safe arrival of my message? Enough pennies to fill a pocket. Not enough for a toasted bagel. 

I actually mailed letters a few days before they headed for the airport. It probably made more sense to just hand it to them, but they were delighted to have it waiting for them after an arduous trip with layovers and pulling off their shoes in security. We humans seem partial to physical reminders of love. 

I read of a husband who was saving to give his wife a thousand long stem roses for their twentieth anniversary. But leading up to that celebration, his wife was feeling distant. He mentioned this to an older, perhaps wiser man. 

"Stop saving up. Give her a single rose today. Maybe another in a few days. Don't wait."

The husband went to the flower store and came home with one blossom. His wife smiled. A few days later, he brought her another. She hugged him.

Writing to my daughters has become a part of my routine. I compose them in lulls at the hospital, or at the cathedral desk. Ben loves to carry them to the post office, because, well, there is that dish with candy at the window. I tell myself that adding him to the fire brigade adds to the sweetness. 

The stack of cards is next to me now, waiting with both patience and anticipation for their chance to be transported to Europe. The stamp guarantees their place on the plane. What is unknown is what whimsical message will fill the empty space inside the envelope.