(essepì) While listening to the car radio, I heard with interest of a pleasant conversation, on  postcards. I wondered when I had received my last postcard, but I did not find any answer as I do not remember the last postcard I got.

I lived forgetting with guilt, as if I betrayed  myself a little.  It was the first time I regretted  "with affection" something tied to the past: I do not like living on memories and, even more, of nostalgia. I am convinced, in fact, that we end up using facts, circumstances, people, things to hide the desire to go back in time. In short, more people and events that regret, yearn for the youth. A mental operation which I avoid. It is not a virtue.

The postcards have been part of my life. I’ve sent to friends and relatives every time I left the city of residence, work or other reasons, and I have received many from those who entertained me with a relationship of warm and friendly friendship, but also by those who – after having met – felt desire to "seal" – a better verb cannot  be found. another – that encounter, even if only accidentally.

I also liked that they knew of my travels, to share it with them in some way. The postcard was always a "positive" message, a sign of courtesy, kindness, gratitude, appreciation. It was the need to stay close to the people who love each other.

I keep so many cards, but, I confess, I do not find the time to review for some time. I intend to do so from time to time, but I can not respect the commitment that I take with myself because life gives us fewer opportunities to devote to the "past".  not  only . It is not  a good thing.

However, I believe that there is a special reason for my regret for the postcards. Among those who maintain there is a package, rather peculiar are the postcards that my father and my mother exchanged while young and in love. Contain short and affectionate messages: words of love, nothing fancy, but delicious testimony.
 
I feel fortunate to have them again. I’ll do anything for my children to be kept, as I did, and appreciate. They have so few opportunities to have memories of their grandparents, who they never knew, to give a value to the cards. I’m not sure of success, because the digital world is too far away from them. Do not despair, I started writing dipping a pen in the inkstand, and I am comfortable with the newfangled technology of today.
 
My parents cards have a peculiarity, are not stamped. I think, that they had never been  sent. I must therefore think them to be hand-delivered by mutual friends or even personally. I should not wonder that the latter hypothesis was right.

Reading them, I can assume that the words in the back of the illustration – romantic images – makes up for shyness, the need to maintain and amplify the feelings. Pointless to ask why not now send and receive no more cards. There’s Face book, Twitter, email, text messages and so on. It seems that the cards have the same task. I think many of my friends, but no one will convince me that is so.