The Last Postcard

Solid black.  The last postcard, kept in a secret place in the postal system, ready to be sent to the person who breaks the system.  It’s your fault, the postmaster general will write, it’s you that’s ruined everything.  Because of Seinfeld, the postmaster general must be Wilford Brimley.  I’m comfortable with that.  Postal apocalypse—it’s the right thing to do, and the tasty way to do it.  Dad, though, would want Clint Eastwood. 

Wish You Were Here!

Clear sky, foamy surf, untouched beach.  An obnoxious relative, likely drunk, is bragging about how the sand burns your soles, how laidback each day is, how margaritas magically appear before you wherever you are.  Meanwhile, here, it’s -34 degrees and snowing eighteen inches per hour.  Mom says, nope, don’t wish we there, striking this relative’s name from the Christmas list.