Postcards

When we were little, we used to send them all the time. I remember, during holidays, we were waiting for the cards to come every day.

It was our own way of exchange, a way that made us feel important, mattered.

For a long time, I kept all of them.

Birthdays, holidays, grandparents, friends, …  I had hundred of them, all crammed into a small case. There were so many that it couldn’t close anymore. 

I had gotten into the habit, once or twice a year, of opening the briefcase and rereading each letter one by one. 

Sometimes, often I was letting go melancholy tears.

The day the house burned down, I cried for the cards.

Those tender words from my childhood, erased from this life.

Since then, I don’t keep the cards anymore.

Because of the space it takes

Because of the numerous moves

Because we need to stop worrying about such futiles things

I miss the collection

I miss the writting of my mother, grand mother’s, lost vacations friend’s.

I miss opening the case.

It makes me sad,

But I don’t cry anymore. 

Postcards, reflexion / Elia Ormond by blogadmin is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution CC BY 3.0