Postcard

Olivia Harris shuffled methodically through boxes and unorganized piles of her parents history in New Orleans, as well as their separate lives before their marriage. Her father, Henry’s life in Chicago, as a boy, and then San Francisco. And her mother, Marjorie’s in India, Japan and Europe.

Her mother’s letters to old college friends, as well as childhood playmates, were amazingly devoid of any real substance. Her journals, from her teenage years through college were the exact opposite. They were incredibly detailed.

Olivia could almost picture the sleek old halls of the boarding schools in Austria, Switzerland and England. She could see the gargoyles, ancient guardians of secrets and lives, who perched atop the buildings of Princeton, Oxford and Yale. Youthful faces floated delicately before her mind.

Setting aside a beautiful stack of letters, written by some charming, long-forgotten sweetheart, known before her parents had ever met, and tied with an emerald ribbon,Olivia continued her digging. Pictures of her mother in a blue gown, and of her father as a boy dressed like a cowboy, were found. Letters, a high school diploma,”presented to Marjorie Elizabeth Stratton, upon her successful graduation” were ultimately given up, as hopeful offerings. Given so that perhaps her hand would not reach again into the moldy depths of the box.

Halfway through the moldy cardboard box, Olivia pulled out an old, grey book, whose true color might have once been a majestic royal blue. As she opened the book, the spine protested, cracking with age. On top of the first page, in an old fashioned spidery hand was written,

“ Celeste Hanson, Belgium 1950-1958”

Turning the page, Olivia saw a picture of a handsome young man in a military uniform. His brown hair could barely be seen from underneath his hat. His blue eyes met the camera in an unwavering gaze, that was almost unnerving. So determined was the look. The man’s eyes that Olivia almost didn't notice the faint sadness.

Turning the picture over, she saw the same spidery handwriting on the back of the picture.

“William Jamison, Italy, 1946”

Olivia was so caught up I get rummaging, that she didn’t notice how dark it was getting until the single lightbulb overhead gave out.

By Abigail Moore

From: United States