Postcards

It was after my week in Mexico that the first one arrived.

I came back home to San Fran with the family to find a postcard in our mailbox, identical to the one I’d purchased at the hotel gift shop in Playa del Carmen. I was a little unsettled, but what could I do? The postcard was blank, with only our mailing address and a postmark from its destination. I didn’t tell my wife. I thought I was losing my mind.

Later I went to Portland on business. When the week was out I was overjoyed to be fly back to the comfort of home and family.

“Was it a stressful week?” my wife asked over dinner some time later.
“Huh?” I said, through a mouthful of steamed beans.
“You mailed us that postcard but didn’t write anything on it.” I stopped chewing.

I recognized the card from the ones I’d seen in the carousel by the front desk at the hotel – it had their logo on it. The postmark was for the day I’d flown out. The card was blank.

I couldn’t sleep that night or the one after. I sat on the couch in the dark staring at the soft glow of the television and drinking Jameson. I thought I was losing my mind.

When I came home from work the following day the flag on our mailbox was up. Inside I found a postcard with a picture of the Golden Gate Bridge.

There was no postmark. It had been delivered by hand.

The front door was open.

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