The Post Card

Annie stair at the mailbox. She knew she had to, but she also knew she could not.

It was not fair. How could so many people post so many letters and boxes every day and she not able to retrieve the postcards her dad sent her each week because she was afraid. It had not been a problem until now. She had developed a system where she watched for the mailman, and using her binoculars, she would check to see if a brightly colored post card form her dad had arrived. If she saw one she would dial his phone number and the two of them would take for hours. Covering much more than any post card could ever communicate.

This had gone on for three years, ever since Annie’s dad had left to photograph some of the most remote places in the world. Two weeks ago he had been in Tristan de Cunha a group of small islands located in the southern Atlantic Ocean. Annie was not sure if they had post cards there but one had come just the same. If only she had the courage to reach it.

When Annie saw the post card from Tristan de Cunha, she had as always called her dad on his satellite phone. The call went on like usual. She would ask all kinds of questions about the crazy places he had been and if she could go with him next time; and he asked about how school was going and if she had improved her time in the 400 meter race at the last track meet.

This time however before the customary “Goodbye, I love you”, “I love you too”. Annie’s father had made a request. “Annie, I know you have not been looking at my postcards, and I really wish you would. You are almost 16, it is silly for you to still be afraid like you are. So next time I send a post card, I am going to write a special message on it and you can only call me once you know what it is. Ok?”

            “Ok, I’ll try.”

            “That’s my girl.”

            “Bye dad, I love you.” Annie’s voice was small, like a child who was afraid to tell the Santa at the mall what they wanted to be.

            “Bye sweetie, I love you too. Now let me talk to your mom real quick, all right?”

            “Here she is.”

Annie stair at the mailbox. She knew she had to, she had to reach in, she had to face the possibility that she might get bitten. The pail blue of the mail box felt like a lie, “come and see what is inside me little girl, I promise it will not hurt you.”

Annie closed her eyes. She felt the cold mettle of the mailbox door agents her fingers, heard the door creek open, smelled the darkness inside. Slowly she fumbled around until she found the thin strip of paper. It was healthy card stalk, the kind that only the best postcards were made of. Slowly she drew the monster out of it’s cage.

She opened here eyes. There it was, a picture of the rocky mountains looked back at her. She was ok. She was holding the paper like it was poisonous, clenched between her thumb and pointer finger, promising herself that she would be able to flip the card over without toughing the raiser sharp sides.

“On the count of three,” she told herself, “flip on the count of three, one, tow, THREE!”  She flipped over the card.

There were two words on the card: I’m Home.  

Annie smiled, and looked around wildly for her father. As she did she unconsciously reagusted the postcard in her hand, her index finger sliding along the edge of the paper. A sharp pain ran up her finger, Annie looked down. A paper thin line of blood rested on her finger.

Annie screamed, she was going to die. How could she have let this happen? Why had she gone to the mailbox to get the postcard? She had been avoiding paper for the past three years, just for this reason.

A paper cut, her worst fear.