Postcards from the Past

Once, two crows sat talking atop the telephone pole on the corner of Main Street and Williams. Jake said it was a bad sign; I told him his superstitions were nonsense.

That was a long time ago, and I don’t know why, but that memory sticks out in my mind on particularly sunny days, the cold, crisp sort of autumn days I sometimes wish I could condense and store in a jar.

On those days I remember Jake and his silly supersitions, and sometimes I pass his old house just so I can sharpen the memories.

It’s strange, but we’re just a succession of yesterdays.

I don’t know where he is now. Oh, he’s alive alright, but I only hear from him two or three times a year – postcards from my past, is how I like to think of them. But they always come from the strangest places. No return address.

It’s spooky almost.

And today slips silently into the past, a transition so soft you hardly catch it unless you’re paying attention. And I wake up to another blue day, with crows cawing on top of the telephone pole.

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