Postcards to Self | Previous Challenge Entry

how it works

TITLE: Postcards to Self | Previous Challenge Entry
By Dave Pearson
09/03/05
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The old man fingered the worn, yellowing postcards, touching the pictures as if he were not sure whether they existed in real life or just on paper. He sat in the floor of his living room, having ignored the table and the couch, perhaps as a symbol of his despondency. So much wasted time, he thought to himself.

The postcard in his hand showed an anonymous family at Disneyland. The card was as old as the outmoded clothes the family in the picture wore. A simple picture, depicting a simpler time. The old man turned the card over. “Took the wife and kids to Disneyland”, it read. “Had to leave early to attend business meeting. A great two hours.” Hmmm, he thought. Two hours for the amusement park visit, or two hours for the meeting?

The next card showed a typical beach scene, with many people in the water and on the sand. The reverse was similar in tone to the first card: “Took the kids to the beach so I could finish a proposal for work. I think the kids had fun.” I think? Wasn’t I there with them to know for sure?

The old man paused for a moment to wipe away a few tears that had escaped despite his iron determination to keep any feelings locked away. Having dried his face, he once more looked through the cards. Each postcard pictured a wonderful place, full of promise and hope and…missed opportunities. On the back of each was a curt note to catalogue the experience, a few words written down in haste that said…nothing.

His life had been full of achievements, accolades from both peers and the public. He had been at the top and had gloried in the riches of success. But now those achievements were a dull glow from the past, the accolades merely forgotten words from forgotten people. His emptiness burst full on him as he realized that those who should have been closest to him all along, his wife and family, had only been mere footnotes in a dry biography, mostly ignored by him as most footnotes are.

His loved ones were now lost to him. His wife had passed away, eaten up by loneliness as surely as the cancer that had finally claimed her. His children were all grown, with grown children of their own. They never called, seldom wrote, rarely even thought of him. He was merely a footnote in their lives, mostly ignored by them as most footnotes are.

All that remained were these few postcards to self, for even most of his memories had dried up and blown away. So much wasted time.

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