I held the postcard that was never written and never sent, imagining her jagged New York script flying over the paper, as if she had too much to say and too many things to do to say it. I could even see where the lower right corner had gotten crushed as it slipped out of some anonymous mail sorter’s hands in one of a dozen countries on its way to me. But none of that had ever happened.

She’d been in Russia when she hadn’t sent me the postcard on the day she was killed, the Cyrillic lettering on the stamp she hadn’t used a stark reminder of how far she had gone. She traveled often, a wanderer who was never lost, and I was slow to change, adrift on solid land, needing geologic upheaval to get me to move and then struggling to find my balance. She awed me.

The picture on the postcard she hadn’t bought wasn’t of something cliché and gauche like the Kremlin; it was a stark Siberian landscape under meters of snow. The kind of place she knew I would want to visit, to experience desolation and unspoiled beauty. The white of midwinter faded quickly though, to the deep red of her blood, spilled onto a Moscow street by a careless bus driver, spelling out her last communique in illegible words that everyone can read.

We hadn’t been lovers, though there were certainly parallel universes where things had been different. It wouldn’t have worked, not the way we both needed, and good friends are rare enough that casting one aside isn’t something to be done lightly.

I turned away from the postcard that had never been printed and opened my computer. I don’t believe in Heaven, but her soul must still be out there, somewhere, and I had so much to say. The blinking cursor blurred in my dampened eyes, a trail of footprints refracting across the screen, and I saw what she’d written in the postcard she had always wanted to send but had forgotten. A lesson she had tried to teach me when we’d been together but had the restraint not to shove down my throat.

The first step out the door was hard, the second harder, but the thousandth was as natural as breathing. I had my own postcards to send.


4 Responses to “MWBB 41”

  1. I love this. Thank you.

  2. Miranda Kate Says:

    Wonderful piece.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: