Growing up the daughter of two antique collectors had its perks and pitfalls. My childhood home often felt like a museum, full of awe-inspiring art crafted in a time I struggled to imagine. And as in any museum, we knew what we could and could not touch. I used to tease my Mom that there were more chairs in the house that we weren’t allowed to sit on than ones that we were. As such, I spent a lot of time in antique shops. “There is a little consignment store around the corner that I want to stop at real quick,” was the common refrain in the car.
I had my own mission at every shop: find the postcards. There was inevitably a shoebox full of antique postcards of all shapes and sizes in every store. And if you were lucky, you would find one already filled in. I would flip through each card, hoping to find the one with a window to the past. “Dear Shirley,” “Yours, Anne,” “With love, John.” Each one felt so romantic to me, no matter what the content of the message. I envied their cursive lettering and appreciated the simple act of writing to someone you loved. I never asked to buy any of them, instead choosing to leave them as treasure for the next antique store wanderer, but I would daydream about their senders or recipients on the car ride home.
As you write your next postcard, addressed to a friend, a parent, or a partner, consider this: it could last a lifetime, maybe even two! Imagine someone finding it 80 years from now tucked in a shoebox on a bookshelf in some antique store. They may wonder who you were, what color your eyes were, and admire your handwriting.