Day 3. The Prison

Last night I read through over a year's worth of postcards. And it was very sad that the number of sad ones far outnumbered the happy ones. I started crying around the 10th card, and didn't stop until the end. I desperately wish I had more of the ones that talk about being giddy and speak so poetically of my physical attributes. And I wondered: when did making love become having sex?

I started thinking about lots of things we talked about back then. I started thinking about how we talked about having kids. And I wished he had said, let's stop wasting time and have one. I would have said, ok. And right now, instead of being a weepy-eyed waif, I would be a glowing mother of the most perfect child on Earth. And it would be amazing. But it's not.

And today I received one more postcard. But it's really not a postcard. It's the most bizarre photograph I've ever seen. I can't even imagine where it came from, but it's twice as odd because he sent the actual photo. The Kodak logo is slathered all over the back, underneath his familiarly strange handwriting. And he's even marked it with a festive stamp.

I don't know what to think of the newest addition to my collection of correspondence. This one is so much more hopeful than the cards of recent past. I want to believe that it has something to do with me, but second guessing has become second nature and I don't know what to think. Is this some false hope he has put on for the sake of a new year? Does it involve me? Is there something I should be doing? Saying? Thinking?

I have never wanted anything but to free him from his prison of grief and sadness. And suddenly, out of nowhere, he shines a light that screams of revolution. I want to ask; is it real? Is it a dream?