by M.C. Schmidt
She found them on eBay and got them for a steal. Once they arrived, she wrapped them and kept them in her underthings drawer until Russ’s birthday. “What’s this, Norma?” he asked when she presented him with the gift. She raised her eyebrows to say, Open it and see…
To her delight, he got it. “Well,” he said, smiling at the stack of postcards. There were fifteen of them, blank, joined by a rubber band that looked as ancient as the cards themselves. “Yellowstone. Just like when we were dating.” He’d interned there one summer for his forestry degree and wrote to her every day, always on this same postcard.
“They’re vintage,” she told him.
“Mm,” he said. Hard to believe this was the same scribe. Time had muted him. He thanked her then rose from his chair and carried them off with him.
That afternoon, she passed by the front door and stopped. A postcard lay in the foyer like it had been pushed through the mail slot. She picked it up, turned it over. Thanks for these, babe, it read. I love you. Her heart melted. When she saw him, she hugged him. His body stiffened. “Thank you,” she said.
“Mm,” he told her.
***
Another postcard arrived the next day, reading:
N.,
Some nights, while you’re sleeping beside me, I remember the time we went camping in White Sands. Remember, dear? God, we were babies. I recall lying there, listening to you breath, nuzzling up to you in the cold desert night. I couldn’t believe how lucky I was to sleep next to you.
I still feel the same way.
I love you, baby.
R.
Later, when he walked through the kitchen, she kissed him on his cheek.
“What was that for?” She showed him the postcard. “Mm,” he said.
***
Then, the next afternoon, this one:
N.,
Remember when the kids were small? Often, when I seem distracted, this is where my head is. I’m proud of who they’ve become, but sometimes I miss them so much my heart aches—when they were little and tearing around the house. Before they understood me to be a flawed man, when I was bulletproof and they felt safe from all danger only because of their good luck to have me as their dad. What’s left after that goes? Nothing that will ever be as good. I would give a year of my life for one day back with them then—with you too, back when I could still lift you into the air and do all the things to you that you liked then. Sometimes I feel obsolete. God, that’s a lonely feeling. I can’t even tell you.
R.
It was true that he couldn’t tell her. She came to him sobbing, sat in his lap even, letting him know he wasn’t alone; she felt the tug of that same loss. He held her, patted her back, and said nothing.
The next day, no postcard came. Nor the day that followed. Norma grew perturbed.
“Is everything okay?” she asked him.
He nodded and looked back at the TV.
“Are you mad at me?”
“Hm? No.” He patted her knee.
A week passed with no more cards came. She’d given him fifteen, and he’d returned only three. It was preposterous! She started a fight with him and didn’t say why. They hadn’t fought in, God, how many years?
On the day he went to the hardware store, she came to the garage to search through his desk. Norma wasn’t a snoop, but still.
She found them in a drawer, twelve postcards. The ancient rubber band lay snapped beside them. When she lifted them, she found old photos stacked beneath—the kids, Russ looking fit and handsome, many of herself. Taking a seat in his rolling chair, she turned the cards over and found that he’d written on each—early drafts of the messages she’d received, his aborted attempts to communicate those beautiful thoughts.
For a time, she sat with them, the photos. Then, she put everything back but one card. After finding a pen, she crossed out his aborted message, and wrote:
R.,
The past is glossy only because it’s settled. Those were fearful times then, the same as now. Every present is messy. All futures are scary. But we’re still here, and we’re still us.
I love you,
N.
She left it there for him to find. She already knew what he would say.
M.C. Schmidt‘s recent short fiction has appeared in Gulf Stream, The Pinch, Mud Season Review, HAD, Southern Humanities Review, The Saturday Evening Post, EVENT, and elsewhere. He is the author of Manna America and Simple Songs for the End of the World.
January House Literary Journal 
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