The Postcard

So the postcard came today. I was sitting on my bed with just the tinkling of my keyboard keys keeping me company; when my mother came up and handed me a simple postcard. At first I was thrilled; who could have sent it to me? I do not get mail that often, so when I do it is a treat. There was a happy little penguin sitting on a block of ice with a little red pom-pom hat on. You know the one, you get from your grandmother for your birthday, wishes card. Yeah, that cheesy little thing that costs; what not even a dollar. Like they forgot it was your birthday until the last second and sent it on a whim.

I wish this was a birthday card, but my birthday isn’t until next month and no one sends a card that early. So the process of elimination; Christmas, Thanksgiving, and New Years have all passed. And in January there really isn’t anything worth celebrating. Lastly, who would send one with a penguin for a holiday card. So after concluding it could only be from one person; the same person I would not touch with a ten-foot pole. Who when they come morphing into the break room, I bug out. Everyone has one of these people; where no one talks to them because of some weird thing they wear or do. Heck even something about them no one likes. The problem being they are family.

They ride around town all day randomly stopping people; like a social gossip police officer. Sitting in front of the town's postal box so you would have no choice but to speak with them. Things are getting so bad that even the postal carrier is late delivering mail because they go out of their way to avoid speaking to them. Their family, I should love them and understand, but when they are the cause of three divorces in the family; the line has been crossed. Sometimes late at night I stay awake and ponder if I could send them anywhere where would I send them. Hell is too mainstream and there is no way I would send that gossiping bat to heaven. Then the twinkle of an idea, hit me. Just like a worm; it isn’t much until it gets stuck there.

What if I could send them to a room where it was full of mirrors and just the sound of their voice. Going over every bit of untrue gossip that they concocted, and no matter where they turned all they would see is themselves. There would be no place to charge their little red scooter; so they would have to sit there. Alone; with just themselves and their voice. I wonder if they would be able to feel the guilt of the pain they had caused. Or the sourness of her lies upon her teeth, and they fall one by one. Letting the guilt turn in their gut and no one is there to listen, no one to get new gossip from; or to tell the gossip too. Yes, that is where I would send them.