fiction · Postcards

Postcard #1


Dear Gemma,

Thought of you today while in Budapest. I was sat on a promenade bench by the Danube when with hardly a warning the heavens opened. Passersby scurried to find shelter under the nearby bistro canopies. I remained where I was, getting soaked, lost in a memory of you.

I remember being in your back garden when I was little. Danny and I were lost in one of our elaborate made-up games when, just like today, it suddenly started pouring down. As we ran for cover, you came bolting out the patio door into the deluge. You were barefoot and wild, a whirlwind of straggly chestnut hair and freckles.

Your mum screamed at you to get back indoors. You’d catch your death, she said. Danny scoffed and called you mad, as younger brothers are wont to do. I laughed and agreed. Secretly though, I wanted to join you in your mock-ceremonial dance on the lawn; skipping around, arms wide, welcoming the rain.


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