The anonymous postcards had been arriving for months.
They weren’t strictly postcards. Short scribbled notes, hastily written in the shiny white frame around the back of a polaroid.
Today’s note said: “You’d rather be here.”
I turned the polaroid over, holding its white borders in two hands as I stared at the image. A waterfall plunged into a sapphire pool, lazy palm trees dotted on its grassy banks.
Whoever wrote it was right. I would rather be there.