"You remind me of Mars," she said.

"How so?" he asked.


Remember that postcard you sent, the one I keep folded in my wallet, even though everyone says that the creases ruin the picture, but they don't...they can't. I remember the day it arrived, still firm, with the sheen that declares it has only had the most minimal of contact and which now is dulled with handling, familiar memories and waking reveries.

I turn it over and read the three words you inscribed, three words written a lifetime ago, that hold the promise of the future. A simple statement to remind me that I have something to look forward to. Three words, from Future You, to Present Me -

"I'll be waiting."

Once more to the front, the image immediately arrests my gaze, this molten orb of a planet, a riot of cinder and copper and crimson hues melding together, seemingly perfect in it's shape and surface, like the most coveted marble in the collection you had as a child. But the closer I look, I notice that it is not a perfect circle but rather, rich with surface-tension scarring, geographic upheaval, the remains of oceans and the reminders of the passing of time.


It is like you.

From far away you capture my gaze, your very nature like an nimbus of intensity and intent, the brightness of you very nearly burning me with the sensation of scarlet sensuousness and carnelian charisma. You look perfect. You seem so very distant. It is only up close that you develop contour, corrosion and cracks. It is then I see memory and muscle and sorrow. I can trace what time has left etched in your face and form, the subtlest of lines and the deepest of emotional grooves. An ocean's worth of tears and mountains of mistakes linger just over the horizon of your eyes, where apology and atonement share space with defiance and delight, and the warmth of you mingles with reserve and cool politeness.

You are flawed.

And for that, you are perfect. Perfect in the way that makes me want to run my hands over you. Perfect in the way that makes me want to set up home and hearth on your foreign shores, declaring my right to some of your territory. Perfect in your undefined boundaries and continental divides. Perfect in accepting that I am defying the odds to survive in your wilderness, taming the monsters while embracing your wildness. Perfect for all your sharp edges, deep ravines and stormy weather.


Remember that postcard you sent, the one with the picture of you, more you than any other single-moment, stop-motion, split-second capture of you could ever be. It is you as you are meant to be seen. It is a picture of you from the future. A picture of you as you will look when I see you.

I turn it over, my fingertips noticing the once-glossy sheen is now a much richer patina, as though all the hope and promise poured into this token have turned it into a truth. The worn edges and creased center do not detract from its worth, but rather, are proof of it's value to me. I turn it over and read the three words you inscribed, three words written a lifetime ago, that held the promise of the future. A simple statement that reminded me that I had something to look forward to. Three words, from You, to Me -

"I'm still here."

12/03/2009

Author's Note: A flight of fancy...and an impractical desire for mail from faraway planets in future times.

Posted on 12/03/2009
Copyright © 2024 Therese Elaine