Posted in 1994, Delivered for the Funeral

My father was not a writer. In seventy-six years he produced, as far as anyone knows, one piece of correspondence: a postcard from a fishing trip to the lakes in June 1994, which never arrived, a fact my mother teased him about for decades. 'You can't even post a card.' It became one of those marriage jokes with fossilised affection inside it.

He died in March, suddenly, mid-laugh at his own joke, which everyone agreed was the only way he would have consented to go. The week before the funeral had that specific chaos of grief administration, and the task defeating us all was the words for the order of service. Everything we drafted was either too much or nothing.

The morning of the funeral, among the sympathy cards on the mat, lay a postcard. Lake photo, faded to peach. A 1994 stamp, franked twice — the original mark, and a fresh one from three days prior, with a sticker: FOUND DURING SORTING OFFICE REFURBISHMENT. DELAYED ITEM. WE APOLOGISE.