Four views and one unfinished sentence
I bought no grand souvenir in this imagined version of the day. A postcard would do. Across the water, the towers stood perfectly still while their reflections refused to cooperate. I wrote “Wish you were—” and stopped. The sentence already sounded borrowed.
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The palms made a moving fringe of shade. I sat beneath it and tried again: “The light here is—”. Another unfinished line. A little wind lifted the card, and I caught it against my knee. Perhaps the useful words would arrive if I stopped interviewing the view.
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Under the clock tower, everyone seemed to have somewhere to go. I checked the hour, although I had made no appointment. Then I turned the postcard over. On the blank side I drew a crooked circle for the clock. It said more about my afternoon than the tidy sentences on the back.
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Beside the round stone fortress, I finally found my line: “Today I had time to look.” I read it once, slipped the card into my notebook, and kept it. There would be other postcards to send. This one could wait between the pages until I needed reminding.
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