Dear Nina,

I’d like to imagine you rushing to the mailbox each day, waiting for glimpses of my travels in faraway places we once dreamed about together. I can see you now, eyes wide, as you throw your long hair up to concentrate on the words I squeezed onto the back of this postcard. Was I brave enough to eat the fried locusts? Yes, but I don’t recommend it. Then again, you were always braver than me at trying new foods. Did I island hop in Hawaii or scuba dive in the Great Barrier Reef? Absolutely, and swimming amongst the sea turtles was your dream come true. I took so many photos I’m certain the guides found me tiresome. 

Remember our late-night conversations about visiting destinations that weren’t on the tourist maps? Well, I got lost several times exploring trails around the Inca ruins. My tour guide was panicking when he found me, and I didn’t need to be fluent in his language to know how angry he was with me. You’d have loved it though, well, aside from my occasional — fine, continual — concerns that I might die in the jungle. I imagined you laughing the whole time, reminding me about the map in my backpack. Sometimes I feel your hand in mine, smooth and solid — and have to remember it’s not real. That’s the hardest part about your death. You’re here and gone at the same time, because my heart forgets what my brain knows.

still in love,
Nick

Word: postcard | Action: waiting