47 years ago on my birthday (July 5th) a woman named Frances B. Murphey sent a postcard to her friend Marion White. Frances was visiting Montana and wanted to tell her old friend in Hudson, Ohio all about it. Here are some excerpts:
"Had a marvelous time in Montana. Saw cattle, horses, and mountains and water almost in every direction. Fed elk and deer. Silver dollars are impossible for your wallet."
The postcard never arrived. Time passed. Marion passed away in 1988, Frances followed exactly 10 years later. After Marion's death, an insurance agent named David Conn took over her post office box. Just last week he opened the box to find the postcard from Montana, arriving 47 years too late.
I think sometimes about what we leave behind, in the end, when we go. I think that all it may be is memories. How someone entered a room, how they might have laughed, what annoyed you about them, the way they said goodbye. In this way memories are very much like a postcard: they can be seen by the whole world but they are addressed to only one person.
I liked your post. Postcards are possibly one of the greatest inventions ever. If you get a chance, pick up a copy of The Lakota Way by Joseph M. Marshall III. I'm just finishing it up and it's a GREAT book. Take care and be good to yourself....and to someone else.
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