My wrist is adorned with multi-colored shackles. They jingle as I write the same three sentences on yet another postcard: I hope this postcard finds you well. The weather is sunny there, I imagine. Don’t forget to enjoy the bright blue sky that glistens on the playful ocean.
The front of the postcard reads Greetings from Milwaukee. Ashen waves rush towards the shore upon which the letters that spell out Milwaukee stand. Each letter illustrates a famous attraction you’d enjoy if you were passing through, with a large gray cloud brewing in the background.
Shrieking from the back yard overpowers the thrumming of the washer, disturbing my routine. Glancing through the bar-like window streaks, I see our children playing tag. A quick wave to them sends the colorful charms on the dainty gold plated bracelet into a frenzy. He gave me the bracelet five years back, on our one month anniversary. Seemed like an odd excuse for a celebration. The first charm he added was a gold heart-shaped lock, its key conveniently omitted.
A charm of a ring to signify our wedding. A gingerbread styled pink house charm with a green door and windows, for when he carried me over the threshold. A blue footprint for our son, pink pair of booties for the girls. Purple sunglasses for my first black eye, a silver stethoscope for the first rib he broke, and a golden cross which he assured me would stand at my gravesite, should I ever try to leave.
I flip another yellow page of a tattered phone book I brought back from a trip to Los Angeles ten years ago.
“A peculiar souvenir to bring back home.” my mother commented.
I, however, imagined finding the name of my florist shop among its pages one day. Today, I continue mid-column through the letter K. Carefully I scribe another address onto the postcard. Return address not provided.