A Postcard from Venice

I worked for the Postal Service for 27 years. No, it was not my dream job but hey, it paid the bills, brought me to Hawaii and helped raise my two sons. My love for mail, the written correspondence type, was immediate. At my postal orientation, I was instructed NOT to EVER read the mail but this was impossible with postcards. A quick glance at an address on a postcard could also sweep up words like "exotic", "intoxicating", "vibrant" or phrases like "last night", "a flurry of", "I woke up" and places like "the Louvre", "Stonehenge" or "Monte Carlo". I was weak, this was torture! I wanted to know what my fellow human beings were up to while I slaved away as a lowly government employee. But, I remained loyal to my public just catching snippets of these 3 by 5 dailies documenting joys of the wandering spirit and mostly ending with "miss you, wish you were here". Yah, right!

Mail has changed over the years. It's printed and covered in plastic, slippery and annoying and 99% of the time, the recipient doesn't want it. I will be the first to admit, I love email, instant messaging and Face Book. I have an iPhone and can snap and post pictures quicker than the most skilled paparazzi (I think highly of myself). But I miss the exuberance and joy of receiving hand written correspondence addressed to me!

I also love the thought and imagery of a written letter. Letters can be placed in shoeboxes, aged to perfection and later, discovered by future generations. Letters can be bundled and tied with satin ribbon, placed between pages of a book or stuffed in a coat pocket to be read and reread, time and time again. Letters have been the foundation of movies like "Possession", "The Lake House" and more somberly, "Letters from Iwo Jima". Letters have also been the substance of books like "The Letters of John and Abigail Adams", "The Heart of the Sea" and "My Life in France" by Julia Child. Letters have shaped and broken relationships, brought joy and sorrow, announced weddings, births and deaths. If we are not journal writers, than letters can become the only source of our personal written history. I once walked, what seemed like most of Paris, to find a museum that housed the last letter written by Marie Antoinette. It was a sad adieu to her children the night before she was dragged off to the guillotine. No matter how tragic, it was imperative for me to see with my own eyes, the last time Marie Antoinette put pen to paper. Maybe she hoped this scratchy script of love for her children would possibly reflect another image of her in times yet to come.

Today I got a postcard from Venice. I opened the door to our mailbox and as I started to pull out the catalogs and credit card invites, I saw my name in Bic pen blue. I knew immediately the handwriting of the sender, my sister, Vicki. Look there! Postage stamps from Italia, the image - a gold envelope whooshing up leaving tails of red and green ribbons in it's wake. Poste Italia! I am giddy. The postcard, a photo of canals and gondolas with coupled passengers embracing while gondoliers navigate the Venetian waters with their long poles. She writes Venice is pretty but easy to get lost. She loves me, she misses me .... she writes "wish you were here".