And yet another postcard, this one of Paris. A winter scene, the Seine with a graceful cantilever bridge, the Eiffel Tower rising from the distant mist while closer trees are perfect half-snow curves. An image copyrighted the year you entered this world.
The last one before this showed bison in a snow-blanketed Yellowstone. It was taken the year after you met. The message was brief, one of his puns. Have you herd I love you?
Others have come at random intervals, the scenes mostly foreign and undated. A man and woman, their dogs’ leashes tangled, the feeling they’re strangers or estranged friends. One of a church. We could have been married here. So many winter settings. Not surprising. But why so many of Paris, a place you’ve neither ever been, together or apart?
Do you foolishly save these in a box buried deep in your closet, hidden like your heart? Perhaps you throw them out, the read and unread; maybe you taunt your husband by letting them lie about. What would happen if you answered?