Photo Story: The Postcard
Contractors discovered the postcard upon pulling out the kitchen cabinetry. It sat for days on a switch box until the drywallers came. Then it rested a while on a palette of Tuscan stone tiles, and, after that, maybe it dropped over a rough sill or was scrapped with the paper wraps of the granite countertops. So the postcard disappeared once more and its story ended again, except that the tiler’s apprentice, a shy teen with an interest in history, posted a picture of it, and, soon after, the willowy grand-niece of one Mrs. Nettie Huelscamp of Empress, Alberta, liked it.
Photo credit: Isaac Bowen
I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t write this letter and tell yet another woman she is a widow. Too many times I’ve felt this guilt, this awful unsettling guilt. I hated feeling that way. So, instead, I wrote this woman a happy letter. I made up a story. I told her, her husband was alive and well. I pretended he wasn’t able to send her a letter as he was too busy fighting. Little did she know I was being untruthful, and then a new guilt settled upon me. It was the guilt of telling a lie
Thankful to you for showing something that is best, and this gives an idea for every one of us to reliably pick up from some individual paying little respect to the way that that individual is not known, and accomplishment constantly for you who have animated each one of us!
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Good choice, this was a nice flash.