invitations. she declares it to be an art, in a world full of electricity which can send a request or suggestion to the intended recipient within seconds. she makes it a point to never use electric invitations, and scorns having to click yes instead of sending back the reply card.
in a way she gets it, gets how it makes life so much quicker and more efficient even as she’s sifting through cards for a template and writing out forty by hand. her fingers cramp at card eight, and the stack of envelopes waiting to be addressed would be daunting in the wrong light. anyway, she folds them all, pastes stamps in place and drops them in a box at the bottom of the driveway.
they won’t be sent. there’s no post around this area; everyone has been online for at least the past thirteen years. all that happens is a thrice-weekly courier service, and all other physical items go to the supermarket which acts as a collection point. email would be the most effective way to do this, but she still calls it a ceremony.
it rains that night and she can visualize perfectly all the notes clumping together into a soggy heap at the bottom of the mail that no-one is going to collect. she mentally counts up the cost of stationery and stamps, counts up the cumulative hours spent writing. the end result is a waste, just a line of numbers and she crumples the page, throws it towards the recycle bin.
the next morning, she sits at her computer and composes an email, drags forty names onto it and types all the details in straight lines with bolded sections, then throws away all the papers.
chalks up another lost art.