I open my mailbox to find three postcards. One blue, one green, and one the color of stones touched by melting snow. No name, no postmark. Just little pen-and-ink drawings, light and tenuous, of the places they must have been. The drawings don’t resemble any places I’ve ever seen, in pictures or in real life. Maybe they’re drawings of places beyond this earth.
The blue postcard says: Remember who you are.
The green postcard says: Remember why you live.
And the last postcard, the one that is the color of stones at the bottom of a river, says: Remember that you will die.
I place the postcards in the order I found them, tuck them inside my mailbox, and close the lid. Five seconds. Four, three, two, one. I open the box once more, and this time it’s empty.
Somewhere someone is opening her mailbox and counting three postcards. One blue, one green, and one the color of stones after the rain. No name, no postmark. Just whispers of ink that tell her the postcards came from somewhere beyond this world.
Meanwhile, I will remember.
© J. Grace, 2015