Dear Wigleaf,

I am writing to you from my desk with something of a confession: I once sent my mother a postcard and simply forgot to include her address. A stupid mistake. Perhaps I was in a rush. Perhaps I was excited thinking about her delight at receiving impromptu mail from her son.

The postcard came with the bill from a downtown New York City restaurant run by Cincinnatians, one that pays monthly tribute to Skyline Chili, the beleaguered delicacy native to Ohio. I had gone with friends, a loose tradition. I spent my boyhood in Cincy, was practically raised on Skyline, and so by sending my mother a postcard bearing a high-contrast glamour shot of the chili—spaghetti smothered with seasoned ground beef, topped with a heap of Day-Glo shredded cheddar—I was paying cheeky tribute to our family history.

I think about that postcard now and then, wonder if it's still floating out there in the belly of the mail system, changing hands, day by day making it closer to its improbable destination. Against the odds, I hold out hope that she receives it while she's still alive, a small act of faith in a world that leaves little room for it. I admit it would break my heart to one day open my mailbox to find the battered postcard sitting there, the simple message—Love you Mom!—moot, journey aborted, at last returned to sender.

Sincerely,

Brendan Gillen