An Orphan Thought.

I haven’t yet imagined the story in which this letter (or probably postcard) is going to exist, but sometimes these fragments just fall out of one’s brain. I’m careful to write them down.

So imagine some bearded, loving but much put-upon father receiving a postcard in his mailbox. Maybe he is in his office, but most likely he has just gotten home and he is standing in the lobby, checking his mail before climbing the stairs. He may be getting this postcard in the past. I like to think 1948, but I have no reason yet why to think that. He is wearing round eyeglasses. It is possible this is taking place in New York. Or maybe Vienna. He studies the picture of the postcard. It is probably an idyllic photo of a beach, but also kind of tacky, like a picture of a Florida beach in the 1970s. He studies the picture. His eyes are confused because he is too tired to be curious. The glasses make his eyes look very large. Imagine that he flips the postcard over and reads the note:

Dearest Father,

Sadly I will not be joining you in the cheese business.

Despondent but certain,

your loving son

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