The Postcard Project

Today I saw Shelby for the first time in twenty-two years. She turned into a person who refuses to betray emotion, who would rather die than react, even with a flutter of an eyelid, or a turn of a hand. “Really,” she said to everything, flattening the word and rendering it questionless, raising the corners of her mouth the fraction that is acceptable, that is to code. Adult Shelby is cold and empty, but Child Shelby remains sweet and pure and locked securely in my mind. I can peruse my collection of her young elements: the blunt blonde bangs, the freckles, the honest blue eyes. That contagious run-on laugh. There’s also a striped shirt I remember, and a round knee above a white sock. Petting Holly’s rabbit, playing office, practice-kissing—I know these images all to be true, and to be Shelby. Shelby’s brother used to pop his pimples and wipe them on the bathroom mirror. Her sister wanted to be a chef, and one afternoon the dog ran away with her chicken masterpiece. We found these thi...

The City intimidates me. It's so big and looming. Subways and cab drivers make me nervous, so I walk and walk and walk. I figure maybe in all these strides, under all these buildings, things will somehow sort out. I stay with a friend who lives in a loft on the Upper West Side. I look forward to the time when the doorman finally recognizes me. My friend goes to art school. There's an ashtray in the shape of an ear on her kitchen table. Twice I've come home and found my friend smoking cigarettes in her underwear. I don't really need that right now. Sometimes when I walk I pretend that I'm on an errand. Other times, I make like I have an important place to be. Pretending gets tiring. My feet don't hurt, though. Guess the shoe guy was right. I'm still not sold on their color. My friend says my shoes make me look touristy, but I disagree. I'm just not a big fan of brown. I stare up at skyscrapers and think wow, that's really high. They must take forever ...

I am sorry to tell you that the scattering did not go as planned. You know he'd selected the spot he wanted a long time ago. We all agreed it would be most appropriate. No one could have foreseen what happened. Brian and I had managed to haul the rowboat—full of garter snakes, as usual—into the water, and made our way towards the muskrat lodge. George was the one that found it, you remember. He was the one who actually knew what it was. None of us had even seen a muskrat till he got there. So we were rowing (well, I was holding the box). When we got closer to shore, Brian pulled the oars out of the water, drifting in. I kept an eye out for turtles sunning themselves on driftwood, for herons flying overhead, for sunfish and bass, for frogs. We didn't see the loons. They can swim a fair distance under water, you know, the length of the lake at least. That’s their primary defence, their ability to disappear completely, and then reappear someplace completely unexpected. That’s what...