Today, I was looking through an old photo album when I came across this postcard.
I thought perhaps, it was a postcard of the plane that I took to the United Kingdom on my first backpacking trip in 1996, as often I collect souvenirs and postcards to fill holes in the blanks where I could not take a photo. I turned it over and found this.
Hello dad. This is my postcard back to you.
You wrote me this card when I was in grade four, I was eight years old, about to turn nine. That’s the same age as my son Angus is right now. You were thirty five when you wrote this postcard. It’s hard to believe that at the time you wrote this card, half of your life had already gone. You just didn’t know it.
It’s funny to think that we live in a world where sending postcards has become irrelevant. A world where we have lost the art of simple letter writing. I remember now that you always sent us postcards on your business trips. Sometimes you’d beat them home, but that didn’t matter to us. We loved the simple fact that although we could not see you, you were still thinking of us. I’ve learnt now, by having my own children that a parent never stops thinking about their kids.
There are so many things left to ask you. I’m turning 40 in a few weeks, and although I’ve had three years to adjust to the concept of you not being here anymore, and I’m not afraid of death; I still don’t ever want there to be a day when the only thing that my children have left of me is a memory. So thank you dad of thirty five. Thank you for taking the time to write me a postcard.