My daughter’s bestie went on vacation to Chicago and sent a postcard. It said, “I am in a big city you are great.” It arrived as I was on my way to collect Daughter from dance class, and I retrieved it from the mailbox along with the new issue of Harper’s and then slipped in inside the magazine’s pages.
We had returned home by the time I remembered it. “Oh, Bestie sent you a postcard!” I announced and strode across the room to retrieve it. But it wasn’t there. While Daughter stared blankly at me, I flipped through the magazine, held it by its spine and shook it, but nothing was in there. It had fallen out. I lost Daughter’s postcard from her best friend.
I swallowed hard and admitted that I had lost it. I apologized. I told her what the postcard said. She smiled and said, “That’s okay.”
Then the postcard made a return appearance in our mailbox over the weekend. Some solid citizen must have found it on the ground and dropped it in a mailbox. It arrived–no joke now–while Bestie was at our house for a playdate.
Sometimes it just works. Even when it doesn’t.