Dear Wigleaf:

When you read this, you'll think, he had so much potential. Look at the way he began, "Dear Wigleaf:" So daring, the colon usage. The mark of a confident writer. His postcard could've been the one. There was such promise, but instead he stared out the window at the rows of city corn growing between buildings. He let the minutes turn to hours and still no writing. But look at that desk, how could anyone write? The dead orchid in a pot, the half-empty coffee cup, and that tin lunch box filled with paper clips and neon green USPS delivery confirmation slips. Does he collect those slips, and why does he save them for years? Each one with a different stranger's name. MacKenzie Hatfield. Neville Vavra. Marianne Gray. Brooke McKenna. Jasmin Garcia. Bill Romeo. Sherell McCloud. And to think of all those deliveries. What does he send? Does he know of their reactions? Does he envision each scene? The knock at the front door. The postcard passed from mailperson to recipient. You glance at the delivery address and the post office stamp. And, quickly, you want to question, "why?" Who do I know in Portland, Oregon? But you read on. There are only a handful of lines. Eventually you smile because mostly you receive bills and flyers and the occasional Netflix movie. But this postcard is signed by a real person and written to you. And just knowing, sometimes, that someone somewhere has thought of you is enough. Isn't it?

With best,

Craig Buchner






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Read CB's "Dirty Dishes."

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