South of the Border Magic
by Jean M. Cogdell
I shivered, pulled my sweater tighter and with the mail clutched to my chest, I scurried up the steps, shutting out the cold wind as I closed the door. I made quick work of the stack tossing the junk mail in the trash as I walked through the house. One thick white envelope brought a smile to my face as I read a familiar name. From the size of this letter, I’d need something stronger than coffee to wade through the highlights of her year.
I glanced at the clock, still early but, I’m sure somewhere in the world, it’s five o’clock. Nice and toasty by the fireplace, and fortified with a glass of Merlot, I opened Martha Jane’s holiday letter. I’d never understood how the practice of sending holiday letters rather than cards ever started in the first place. I couldn’t seem to get the knack of them myself.
