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<v Speaker 1>Us was to be ours.

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<v Speaker 2>The shoe box was not special to look at. It

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<v Speaker 2>was an ordinary cardboard box, the kind that once held

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<v Speaker 2>dress shoes, with a faded blue lid and edges soft

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<v Speaker 2>from years of handling. But when Cora lifted it from

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<v Speaker 2>the top shelf of her aunt's closet, she felt the

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<v Speaker 2>weight of it, the dense packed weight of paper and time,

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<v Speaker 2>and she knew it was something important. Her aunt, Miriam,

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<v Speaker 2>had died three weeks ago, quietly in her sleep in

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<v Speaker 2>the small house at the end of the lane where

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<v Speaker 2>she had lived for forty years. Cora had come to

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<v Speaker 2>sort through the house, a task she had been putting

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<v Speaker 2>off since the funeral. She started in the bedroom because

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<v Speaker 2>it felt like the kindest place to begin, and because

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<v Speaker 2>the closet was the most orderly part of the house.

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<v Speaker 2>Miriam had been a methodical woman. The shoe box was

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<v Speaker 2>behind a row of folded quilts, wrapped in a sheet

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<v Speaker 2>of tissue paper that crinkled when Cora touched it. She

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<v Speaker 2>carried it downstairs to the kitchen table, set it in

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<v Speaker 2>the patch of sunlight that fell through the window and

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<v Speaker 2>opened the lid. Inside were post cards, hundreds of them,

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<v Speaker 2>packed tightly in bundles tied with kitchen twine. Each bundle

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<v Speaker 2>was labeled in Miriam's neat handwriting Italy nineteen seventy four,

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<v Speaker 2>Grease nineteen eighty one, Morocco nineteen eighty nine, Japan nineteen

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<v Speaker 2>ninety six. The dates spanned fifty years, from nineteen seventy

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<v Speaker 2>one to twenty twenty one, and the postmarks came from

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<v Speaker 2>cities and towns across the world. Cora untied the first

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<v Speaker 2>bundle and spread the cards across the table. The postcards

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<v Speaker 2>were different from the ones she remembered buying on vacation,

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<v Speaker 2>the glossy photographs of landmarks and beaches. These were smaller, older,

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<v Speaker 2>some printed on thick card stock, others on paper so

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<v Speaker 2>thin it was almost translucent. Many had handwritten messages on

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<v Speaker 2>the back in Miriam's careful script. She picked up the

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<v Speaker 2>first one. It showed a canal in Venice, the water

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<v Speaker 2>dark green, the buildings leaning gently toward each other, as

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<v Speaker 2>if sharing a secret. On the back, Miriam had written,

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<v Speaker 2>Dear Cora, the gondolas are painted black because of an

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<v Speaker 2>old law about mourning. But there is nothing mournful about

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<v Speaker 2>this city. It sings. I am sitting on a bridge,

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<v Speaker 2>eating gelato and watching the light change. I will bring

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<v Speaker 2>you something when I come home, love Miriam. The date

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<v Speaker 2>was June nineteen seventy four. Cora smiled. She had been

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<v Speaker 2>twelve years old that summer, and she remembered the gift

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<v Speaker 2>Miriam brought her, a small glass cat with a blue

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<v Speaker 2>tail that sat on her window sill for years. She

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<v Speaker 2>had never known where it came from. She untied the

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<v Speaker 2>next bundle, Grease nineteen eighty one. The post guards showed

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<v Speaker 2>whitewashed buildings against a blue sky, fishing boats in a harbor,

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<v Speaker 2>an old man sitting outside a cafe. Miriam's messages were

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<v Speaker 2>short and warm. Dear Cora, I am on an island

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<v Speaker 2>with no cars, only donkeys and footpaths. The donkeys are

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<v Speaker 2>very serious about their work. I am not, love Miriam.

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<v Speaker 2>Corea worked through the bundles slowly, one at a time,

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<v Speaker 2>reading each postcard carefully. She learned things about her aunt

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<v Speaker 2>she had never known. Miriam had traveled alone for most

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<v Speaker 2>of these trips, something Cora had always assumed but never confirmed.

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<v Speaker 2>She had stayed in small hotels and pensions, eaten in

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<v Speaker 2>local restaurants, walked for hours through streets she had never

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<v Speaker 2>seen before. She had made friends easily, it seemed, and

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<v Speaker 2>kept them through correspondents. The post cards were not only

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<v Speaker 2>from Miriam. Some were from people she had met along

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<v Speaker 2>the way, sent back to her as promises of continued connection.

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<v Speaker 2>A woman in Florence wrote, Miriam, I think of you

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<v Speaker 2>every time I see the sunset from the ponte Vecchio.

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<v Speaker 2>A man in Quixoto wrote, the cherry blossoms are falling.

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<v Speaker 2>I wish you were here to see them. A fisherman

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<v Speaker 2>in Portugal wrote, I caught a fish the size of

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<v Speaker 2>your shoe. I saved it for you. Cora realized that

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<v Speaker 2>the shoe box was not just a collection of postcards.

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<v Speaker 2>It was a map of a life, a life she

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<v Speaker 2>had only glimpsed from the outside. Miriam had been a

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<v Speaker 2>quiet woman, content with her routines, her garden, her books.

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<v Speaker 2>But the postcards revealed a hidden vastness, a world of

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<v Speaker 2>connections and adventures that Miriam had carried with her and

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<v Speaker 2>then tucked away in a shoe box, as if they

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<v Speaker 2>were ordinary things. She held up a postcard from Morocco.

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<v Speaker 2>It showed a market scene, colorful fabrics and spices stacked

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<v Speaker 2>in neat piles on the back Miriam had written, Dear Cora,

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<v Speaker 2>I bought a rug to day. The merchant said it

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<v Speaker 2>was woven by his grandmother. I believed him. The colors

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<v Speaker 2>are the colors of sunset here, all orange and purple

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<v Speaker 2>and deep red. I am sitting in a courtyard, drinking

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<v Speaker 2>mint tea and listening to music. I do not understand.

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<v Speaker 2>It is wonderful love, Miriam, nineteen eighty nine. Cora placed

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<v Speaker 2>the postcard gently on the table. She looked at the

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<v Speaker 2>pile of bundles still in the box, dozens more to read,

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<v Speaker 2>years of travel and friendship and quiet wonder still waiting

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<v Speaker 2>to be discovered. She poured herself a cup of tea,

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<v Speaker 2>settled into the chair, and reached for the next bunnle. Outside,

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<v Speaker 2>the afternoon light was golden and slow. A bird sang

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<v Speaker 2>from the garden fence, a simple melody, repeated with the

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<v Speaker 2>patience of someone who knows the song by heart. Cora

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<v Speaker 2>listened for a moment, then turned back to the postcards,

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<v Speaker 2>to the tiny windows into a life she was only

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<v Speaker 2>now beginning to understand. She picked up a postcard from Iceland.

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<v Speaker 2>The image showed a field of lopines, purple and blue,

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<v Speaker 2>stretching to the horizon, Miriam had written, Dear Cora, I

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<v Speaker 2>am standing in a field of flowers that looks like

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<v Speaker 2>the inside of a dream. The wind here is honest.

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<v Speaker 2>It tells you exactly what it thinks. I am wearing

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<v Speaker 2>every sweater I own. Love Miriam two thousand and three,

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<v Speaker 2>grow a smile and reached for the next card, and

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<v Speaker 2>the next, and the next. The afternoon stretching out before

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<v Speaker 2>her like a path through a garden she had not

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<v Speaker 2>known existed. Each postcard a step, each message a small

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<v Speaker 2>bright light in the gathering dusk.