It was late August in Florida. The sun was warm on her skin. She was wearing a white cotton sundress and the huarache sandals she bought from the international market about a week ago. By the electric pole’s shadow, she could tell that it was almost noon. She woke up this morning in her apartment which was approximately two hours away from where she was and drove without a destination in mind.
She grabbed her handbag to feel for an unsealed white envelop. It was not a regular one but bigger, wider, a made-for-card envelop. It wasaddressed and stamped. Inside the envelope was a postcard. A postcard she bought from a yard sale. The card caught her eye because it had a picture of a broken heart on it. It was very simple: a black background and a red broken heart with jagged edge where it was broken, probably a card that was bought but never sent. At that time, she did not know what she would do with it.
The card would serve a purpose today. It would set her free from the past.
Just a few minutes ago, she parked her car in a parking garage and set to walk around this quaint little town’s downtown area to look for a mailbox where she could drop the envelop.
She knew there was a bakery up ahead because she could smell the delicious heady scent of cinnamon buns and pungent aroma of fresh brewed coffee. She quickened her pace, passed by a used bookstore, made a mental note of checking if they have a copy of a book she wanted to reread, then spotted where the smell was coming from. It was a little glass fronted cafe, with inside and outside seating. It had a contrived French atmosphere. A couple of metal tuteurs- elaborate European trellises- draped in silk ivy look alike on equally elaborate urns, planked the entrance. The daily offerings were written in French on a chalkboard above the long chest level glass display case filled with every imaginable cookies, cakes, and pastries which run the whole length of a wall facing the door. A short, low laminate topped counter held the espresso machine and a small cold beverage fridge. It covered the middle part of the right wall. The inside seating area was decorated with framed posters of Viktor Shvaiko’s Paris scenes. There were four sets of haphazardly scattered round tables and matching chairs covered with crisp red, white, and black checkered linen fabric. The outside sitting area consisted of four metal tables each with four chairs topped by umbrellas in French flag colors infront of the cafe.
She sat on a vacant table outside the cafe. A pimply teenage boy in blue polo shirt and khaki trousers appeared. She ordered an espresso and an almond cookie. While waiting for her order, she opened her handbag taking out the white envelop. She looked at the address on the envelop, peeked at the postcard inside then licked it shut. She walked to a mailbox a few steps away from where she was sitting, looked all around her to see if someone was watching, then gingerly dropped the white envelop in it. Her heart felt lighter as she sat back to enjoy her coffee and cookie but she knew she would always feel guilty for what she did two years ago.
The envelop was addressed to PostSecret. On the postcard inside, with the broken heart as a background were cut and pasted bold black words typed on white strips of paper. The strips formed the phrase: " He did not cheat on you. I lied. I am sorry but I cannot bring back the past and make it right for both of you."
"PostSecret is an ongoing community art project where people mail in their secrets anonymously on one side of a homemade postcard."
Here's the link: http://postsecret.blogspot.com/