I write more postcards than hooks,
I read more maps than books.
Feel like every chance to leave
is another chance I should have took.
Every minute is a mile.

I measure minutes in bus stops, train stations and flight times. Two hours early to wait around. Through blurry eyes I watch the miles fade into memory and blur into one another.

I add to my list: What countries have you been to? Spain. Gibraltar. I was in Amsterdam for two hours, Paris for three. I went to Devon for the first time and the rolling hills looked beautiful from behind the terminal glass. I mark the time with pieces of a Galaxy bar and sips of weak tea.

A template for writing postcards. Hello from  insert country here . Interesting fact goes here. Made me think of you. Wish you were here/miss you/see you soon. Love, Heather. As I write I imagine the fridges and bulletin boards the cards will grace, the homes and the people they will see before me.

It seems like everything I write now could be from a chapter titled “Trains, planes and automobiles.” A few lines in a travelling song. A few words in monologue about leaving and arriving and the spaces in between.

I’m crossing things off lists and counting flights on two hands worth of cold fingers. My passport is smeared with black ink and bending at the corners. I need new walking shoes.


  • By Eleni, February 23, 2010 @ 9:42 pm


    Travel is nice–you can gather such great memories and photos. I’m always really bad about sending postcards when I travel. I should remember to do it more often, since I like it when other people send them to me.

  • By Chandra, February 24, 2010 @ 7:16 pm

    awwwww I love this entry

  • By Christine Sweeton *The Chris*, March 1, 2010 @ 6:33 pm

    Very beautiful writing.
    I want your life!

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