At some point, when it sunk in that the long-distance aspect of this whole relationship thing was going to be the exception rather than the rule, I bought a box of 100 postcards (on the front of each, a different Pantone swatch) and started sending one every day - or at least every weekday, since the postcards and stamps live in a drawer in my desk at work. They arrive at his end in fits and starts: Some days he won’t receive any at all, and on others there will be two or three swatches (interspersed with selections from an eBay’d selection of 1970s tourist picture cards) waiting in the box. The other day, after a windstorm, I noticed two sitting under the stairs near my outbound mail slot - uncanceled, they’d probably been swept away in the storm when the postman tried to empty that day’s sent letters - and nearly cried at the lack of continuity, but then just dropped them back into the box. They’ll arrive eventually.
Apparently I’ve stolen the postcard thunder, but every so often he’ll send one in return, which is always a delightful little surprise to uncover as I’m sorting through the mess of mail that inevitably ends up directly in the recycling pile. People should send more letters to each other.
The snow melts in some places, staying in others, creating a black-red-white mural.
The Super Walker
7 weeks & 1000 miles
Being Mortal in the Mountains
The last of the box of 100 postcards, in the mail. So that they're all postmarked Boulder.
This is what a bicycle looks like when flipped upside down and wrapped up in furniture pads.
Look closer: it's not snow on that tree. Finally!
Post-yoga second breakfast of champions. Boxcar Coffee, Pearl Street.