Dear Wigleaf,

I wish I could pen this to you on an actual postcard. It would have a split photo of the falling leaves crimson, from the maple in my front yard, and golden, from the bur oak in the back. Bubbled letters would declare across its front: "Change is in the air."

The glare off my screen is not the same as those long-ago days when hands slid scribbled imperfections into a squeaking mailbox and knew that, after the note's long journey, another hand would receive it. That card bought with loose change was both a remembrance and a connection.

Now, our hands mostly scroll.

Part of the oddity of postcards—so personal from one to the next—was that, without an envelope to enwrap it, the message sent wasn't truly private. I guess this message isn't so different after all. I write to you from the hush of a season in flux. You are not here with me, but your own trees are just outside and my hands typed this. Perhaps we can connect after all.

Season's greeting,

Abby