A young boy bounced by the curb, alone for now. The schoolhouse was made of clay, it stretched tall over the students, and it was etched by a potter’s hand and painted with a potter’s brush. The children were small, like little figures in a toddler’s dollhouse, or perhaps it was their age, with full cheeks and wide eyes.
The boy scampered to a bench, right of the doors, in front of a small, still pond. His eyes darted around, before excitedly opening a small notebook. Within its rough pages, a notecard almost two times bigger than his own little hands awaited him. He sat and stared, and thought about what he would write in it. To whom would he write? When would he write? One small postcard, special to him, opened so many possibilities, opportunities, it was almost overwhelming. A picture burst through the card, with swirling branches with pink petals exploding from their buds, and in the foreground, a river winded. On the other side, a monument sat, perfectly still.
Of course, the boy didn’t know what memorial it was, why would he? He was but a boy. In fact, he chose this postcard because it was striking. Striking, yes, it allowed him to dream. Dreaming was so important for a boy like him.
Now, the postcard was sure she would never see a splotch of ink in its envelope. The boy could barely hold it before fear struck him, and he put it down to avoid grease stains from overly oiled pizzas. However, the card wasn’t mad, in fact she was downright overjoyed. Even to be looked at with such wondering eyes. Not that she could see, but the cardstock could feel, or close to it.
Paper can certainly breathe, can’t it? The boy thinks so, so it must be true. He felt obligated to keep the card away from harm, in fact he grew so attached to the card that day, he barely touched it. He was sure, as soon as he got home, he would place it in an envelope for safety. Perhaps green? Green is a calm color, so the card would most certainly enjoy it. A soothing green would be a lovely home. But what if the card found it insulting? Would she think he thought of her to be an angry card? Well then, green certainly would not do. What about a yellow card? It is a happy color, and very uplifting. If the beautiful postcard was ever in a rut, she ought to be cheered up, right? But she may think he thought she was sour, and needed consoling. He didn’t like that. Perhaps an envelope shouldn’t be the card’s home.
Of course, it’s not like he’s really alone, on his bench, watching the water. Noises of junior high students sailed through the air, like the pretty airplanes he creased and set free in art class that day. In fact, they learned all about clay as well. Perhaps that’s why he would never look at a building the same way again.
“Hey, Akira,” one new, strange boy waved from afar, surrounded by a group of boys. Akira, the young boy, didn’t yet understand complex ideas, like teasing, or poking fun. He did know, however, that the group of kids wanted to see his card, so he showed them. He held the card at a distance, like a teenager showing their mother a photo, and holding it just far enough that she can’t grab it away. This didn’t stop them, of course.
First came comments, some complained about it at first, and one boy frowned at the design. Then, one (simply rude) boy, seemingly the most popular, outright took it from Akira’s hands.
“How come you picked such a girly design?” he said, laughing. “It’s so, well, pink!” The boy looked at his friends, smirking. They snickered in return.
Of course, Akira didn’t appreciate this, yet they continued.
“Why’s it empty, Akira?” the first boy asked, and his voice had no hints of false intrigue.
Akira tried to take the card back, when the rude boy stuck out his hand and shoved him away. The boys passed it about themselves.
“Should we sign it?” one voiced, to Akira’s dismay. He made a grab for the letter, shoving one or two boys back, he couldn’t tell. Or maybe they didn’t budge, maybe he just imagined it. He was not big, nor tall, like all of them.
“It’s not really worth it, just toss it, if he wants it so bad. The kid’s being rude anyways.” The group dispersed and the rude boy faced off with Akira, before tossing it like a 5th grade ninja star towards the pond like area, most surely intending to soak it. The young boy made a dive for it, clasping it with both hands, scratching his elbows, knees, and wrists as he thudded to the ground.
When he stood, however, the group of junior high students were nowhere to be seen.
Despite this, the boy went home that day, happy. As was the card.
A young woman sat in a very dusty attic, brushing soot off a cardboard box. Folding each flap back, she found a small notebook inside. As she lifted it out of the box, she blew on the cover. To her disappointment, it did not work as well as it does in movies, so she simply ran a sleeve over the cover. It was too small for her big hands, it had to belong to someone young and small. She leisurely skimmed the book, and paused on a certain page.
The postcard could breath, see and hear, she could do whatever one wanted her to do. As her ‘eyes’ gazed upon her visitor, the eyes of the woman were familiar. They were filled, filled with starry dreams and what if’s. The postcard thought, perhaps, she would finally be used, to be filled with more invisible words, for a person who is not, and will not, be.