Dear Wigleaf,

I'm writing this postcard before Harry gets home. If he saw me writing it, he'd say things like: are we supporting the post office? Do we have stock in the post office? Harry is totally text and delete. Says it's cheaper, but I know the real reason. He keeps his life hidden that way. I told him I like a thing you can hold in your hand. He looked at me and said, "Like the sun?"
 
Last year, Harry got rid of all the stamps. Stuck them on a pack of Christmas Cards in July to people we hardly even knew. Said if I even breathed the words "priority mail," he would divorce me on top of the divorce he was already planning.
 
But see, I am writing to you, dear Wigleaf, scribbling on the back of this beat-up old card I've been hiding in the back of my drawer, because I like the feel of me holding it, then having it slip into unseen hands and finally into yours. It's an invisible thread that will sew us together for just a few moments, and not even Harry can rip that apart.

Francine




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Read Francine Witte's story.

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