My dad traveled a lot when I was little. He worked as a sound man on films and documentaries. I remember waiting for postcards and packages from him; gifts when he got back. He wasn’t much of a letter writer but loved sending odd postcards.
The one below with his handwriting is one I kept all these years and took on new meaning after he died. The picture is one I found recently: what looks like an old scratched up Polaroid print my mom took of him while she was pregnant with my older sister.
Tonight the veil grows thin….