The flowers were on the front porch: a red-and-white seasonal arrangement, with a card. “DEAR LILLIE, MERRY CHRISTMAS FROM DEBBIE AND STEVE.” There is no one named Lillie living in our house. I brought the flowers in out of the cold and called the florist to tell them there had been a mistake. Could they track down Debbie and Steve to find out where Lillie really lived? No, they couldn’t. The order had come through a 1-800 service. I should just keep the flowers and enjoy them.
But I was haunted by the idea of Lillie sitting at home alone wondering why Debbie and Steve had forgotten her at Christmas, and by the idea of Debbie and Steve wondering why Lillie hadn’t thanked them for the flowers. I called the 1-800 number and tried to explain the problem. They kept asking me for the order number, and I kept saying I didn’t have one, since I hadn’t placed the order. They said they would check into it and call me back. They never did.
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That night the dear ones who were coming for Christmas called to say they weren’t coming; they both had COVID. Mild cases, luckily, but still they were feeling pretty lousy. It was too late to mail them their presents.
The next morning the cats left a dead mouse under the Christmas tree.
Another red-and-white seasonal flower arrangement showed up on the porch. “MERRY CHRISTMAS WITH MUCH LOVE FROM ANNE.” We know four people named Anne. I called the florist: Could they tell us who had placed the order? No. It had come through another 1-800 service. I dialed 1-800 and couldn’t find my way past the automated voice that kept asking for the order number. I called all the Annes I knew, to thank them. One was glad and three felt a bit guilty that they hadn’t thought to send us flowers.
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There’s been an exhausted, flattened, disembodied quality to this holiday season. We couldn’t face unafraid the plans that we’d made — we knew they might fall through, and they did. The air is full of grief and loss. An older friend who’s lost eight friends to COVID. A recently widowed friend spending Christmas alone because of a COVID diagnosis. A friend with a shattered immune system who’s just tested positive.
We were grateful for the genuine pleasures of the holiday. The affectionate phone calls with family members whom we couldn’t see. The small helpings of the feast we’d prepared when we thought everyone was coming (most of which we’ve now stuck in the freezer, to be thawed someday when everyone can come). But we are also uneasily aware of the reverberations of the last two years. The sudden blows. The drawn-out fears. The slow draining of our emotional batteries. And we’re aware, too, of how much we need the social connections and ties that have been fraying as the pandemic has worn on and on.
Thank you again for the flowers, Anne. Much love to you too.
And Lillie, Debbie, and Steve: We wish you a happy and healthy New Year, whoever and wherever you are.
Joan Wickersham is the author of “The Suicide Index” and “The News from Spain.” Her column appears regularly in the Globe.
