When I received the post card from you I was sitting at my desk flipping a pen between my fingers. It was a foggy morning. Between sips of bitter coffee, I watched a blue jay perched on an empty branch, his head darting in different directions. My computer screen was a white and gray blank on my grandfather’s oak desk. I brushed my hair out of my eyes and pulled my robe tighter around my body. A squeak of a hinge and the blue jay was gone.
At my front door, an array of white envelopes scattered the hardwood floor. The one with your writing I picked up first: “Real Ireland.” I leaned against the door, smiling. A blast of warm air from a vent rushed over my feet. I flipped the card over: A lone farmer hoeing, and his dog, each looking in different directions. Behind them a countryside of green and brown edges held by mountain slopes. I glanced to a photo of us on the brick fireplace, embracing years ago. You had just returned from India. You wore a bright pink sari and your face was decorated in bindis. I was still wearing my work uniform; a pressed blue suit and starched blouse. I wore little makeup. Even then, I was always the worker; you had your sights set out into the world.
Returning to my desk I removed my robe and begin to type: the screen filled with many black letters. I sat for hours, while sunlight spilled across my fingers. Later, I stood and stretched, and moved slowly to the kitchen. Standing at the sink, I nibbled on cheese and bread. I glanced out a small window-
In the sun
Each looking in different directions,
Two jays perched on a branch.
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