Speaker 1: Us was to be ours.
Speaker 2: The shoe box was not special to look at. It
Speaker 2: was an ordinary cardboard box, the kind that once held
Speaker 2: dress shoes, with a faded blue lid and edges soft
Speaker 2: from years of handling. But when Cora lifted it from
Speaker 2: the top shelf of her aunt's closet, she felt the
Speaker 2: weight of it, the dense packed weight of paper and time,
Speaker 2: and she knew it was something important. Her aunt, Miriam,
Speaker 2: had died three weeks ago, quietly in her sleep in
Speaker 2: the small house at the end of the lane where
Speaker 2: she had lived for forty years. Cora had come to
Speaker 2: sort through the house, a task she had been putting
Speaker 2: off since the funeral. She started in the bedroom because
Speaker 2: it felt like the kindest place to begin, and because
Speaker 2: the closet was the most orderly part of the house.
Speaker 2: Miriam had been a methodical woman. The shoe box was
Speaker 2: behind a row of folded quilts, wrapped in a sheet
Speaker 2: of tissue paper that crinkled when Cora touched it. She
Speaker 2: carried it downstairs to the kitchen table, set it in
Speaker 2: the patch of sunlight that fell through the window and
Speaker 2: opened the lid. Inside were post cards, hundreds of them,
Speaker 2: packed tightly in bundles tied with kitchen twine. Each bundle
Speaker 2: was labeled in Miriam's neat handwriting Italy nineteen seventy four,
Speaker 2: Grease nineteen eighty one, Morocco nineteen eighty nine, Japan nineteen
Speaker 2: ninety six. The dates spanned fifty years, from nineteen seventy
Speaker 2: one to twenty twenty one, and the postmarks came from
Speaker 2: cities and towns across the world. Cora untied the first
Speaker 2: bundle and spread the cards across the table. The postcards
Speaker 2: were different from the ones she remembered buying on vacation,
Speaker 2: the glossy photographs of landmarks and beaches. These were smaller, older,
Speaker 2: some printed on thick card stock, others on paper so
Speaker 2: thin it was almost translucent. Many had handwritten messages on
Speaker 2: the back in Miriam's careful script. She picked up the
Speaker 2: first one. It showed a canal in Venice, the water
Speaker 2: dark green, the buildings leaning gently toward each other, as
Speaker 2: if sharing a secret. On the back, Miriam had written,
Speaker 2: Dear Cora, the gondolas are painted black because of an
Speaker 2: old law about mourning. But there is nothing mournful about
Speaker 2: this city. It sings. I am sitting on a bridge,
Speaker 2: eating gelato and watching the light change. I will bring
Speaker 2: you something when I come home, love Miriam. The date
Speaker 2: was June nineteen seventy four. Cora smiled. She had been
Speaker 2: twelve years old that summer, and she remembered the gift
Speaker 2: Miriam brought her, a small glass cat with a blue
Speaker 2: tail that sat on her window sill for years. She
Speaker 2: had never known where it came from. She untied the
Speaker 2: next bundle, Grease nineteen eighty one. The post guards showed
Speaker 2: whitewashed buildings against a blue sky, fishing boats in a harbor,
Speaker 2: an old man sitting outside a cafe. Miriam's messages were
Speaker 2: short and warm. Dear Cora, I am on an island
Speaker 2: with no cars, only donkeys and footpaths. The donkeys are
Speaker 2: very serious about their work. I am not, love Miriam.
Speaker 2: Corea worked through the bundles slowly, one at a time,
Speaker 2: reading each postcard carefully. She learned things about her aunt
Speaker 2: she had never known. Miriam had traveled alone for most
Speaker 2: of these trips, something Cora had always assumed but never confirmed.
Speaker 2: She had stayed in small hotels and pensions, eaten in
Speaker 2: local restaurants, walked for hours through streets she had never
Speaker 2: seen before. She had made friends easily, it seemed, and
Speaker 2: kept them through correspondents. The post cards were not only
Speaker 2: from Miriam. Some were from people she had met along
Speaker 2: the way, sent back to her as promises of continued connection.
Speaker 2: A woman in Florence wrote, Miriam, I think of you
Speaker 2: every time I see the sunset from the ponte Vecchio.
Speaker 2: A man in Quixoto wrote, the cherry blossoms are falling.
Speaker 2: I wish you were here to see them. A fisherman
Speaker 2: in Portugal wrote, I caught a fish the size of
Speaker 2: your shoe. I saved it for you. Cora realized that
Speaker 2: the shoe box was not just a collection of postcards.
Speaker 2: It was a map of a life, a life she
Speaker 2: had only glimpsed from the outside. Miriam had been a
Speaker 2: quiet woman, content with her routines, her garden, her books.
Speaker 2: But the postcards revealed a hidden vastness, a world of
Speaker 2: connections and adventures that Miriam had carried with her and
Speaker 2: then tucked away in a shoe box, as if they
Speaker 2: were ordinary things. She held up a postcard from Morocco.
Speaker 2: It showed a market scene, colorful fabrics and spices stacked
Speaker 2: in neat piles on the back Miriam had written, Dear Cora,
Speaker 2: I bought a rug to day. The merchant said it
Speaker 2: was woven by his grandmother. I believed him. The colors
Speaker 2: are the colors of sunset here, all orange and purple
Speaker 2: and deep red. I am sitting in a courtyard, drinking
Speaker 2: mint tea and listening to music. I do not understand.
Speaker 2: It is wonderful love, Miriam, nineteen eighty nine. Cora placed
Speaker 2: the postcard gently on the table. She looked at the
Speaker 2: pile of bundles still in the box, dozens more to read,
Speaker 2: years of travel and friendship and quiet wonder still waiting
Speaker 2: to be discovered. She poured herself a cup of tea,
Speaker 2: settled into the chair, and reached for the next bunnle. Outside,
Speaker 2: the afternoon light was golden and slow. A bird sang
Speaker 2: from the garden fence, a simple melody, repeated with the
Speaker 2: patience of someone who knows the song by heart. Cora
Speaker 2: listened for a moment, then turned back to the postcards,
Speaker 2: to the tiny windows into a life she was only
Speaker 2: now beginning to understand. She picked up a postcard from Iceland.
Speaker 2: The image showed a field of lopines, purple and blue,
Speaker 2: stretching to the horizon, Miriam had written, Dear Cora, I
Speaker 2: am standing in a field of flowers that looks like
Speaker 2: the inside of a dream. The wind here is honest.
Speaker 2: It tells you exactly what it thinks. I am wearing
Speaker 2: every sweater I own. Love Miriam two thousand and three,
Speaker 2: grow a smile and reached for the next card, and
Speaker 2: the next, and the next. The afternoon stretching out before
Speaker 2: her like a path through a garden she had not
Speaker 2: known existed. Each postcard a step, each message a small
Speaker 2: bright light in the gathering dusk.