The receptionist called a few minutes back
Informing me about a mail for me.
The calendars weren’t marked and,
There wasn’t any celebration nearby. received
The only mail I ever got was a
Carefully chosen card at the gift store
Signed off with love
From my grandparents
Two thousand miles away
On my birthday.
Today was not my birthday.
It was a brown envelope
With stamps from cities unexpected
And a slanting handwriting that seemed familiar.
I carefully slit it open
To find a postcard.
They were like the postcards
Gramps showed that he’d send to his folks
During holidays and celebrations.
It was hand-painted in bright colours
With figures from the seventies
And three types of font
Covered in pictures of localities.
Wish you were here.”
I flip it over
To find the same slanting handwriting.
“Your pending trip and I are stealing you for the weekend.
The flight’s tomorrow morning. Itinerary is in your email.
See you soon.”
I flipped and stared at the postcard
Over and over again
Till I had it completely memorized.
I brought it closer,
Tracing the paints and ink.
It smelt of a love
You found in
Postcards and mails.