diary / by Edward Mullany


I recently mailed a postcard to a friend who lives in a different country, and on the back of the postcard, where there is space to write whatever you feel like writing, I made a few remarks about the painting that had been reproduced on the front, though when I realized that I was running out of room, and that there were other things I wanted to say, I began to print the sentences at a smaller scale, so that the handwriting became cramped, and not as easy to read, though before I put a stamp on it, and dropped it in the mailbox at the end of my street, I read back to myself what I’d written, pretending it was me who’d received the postcard, and not the somebody to whom I was going to send it, and I discovered that what I’d written was legible enough, and figured that my friend would be able to comprehend my meaning, even if she had to guess at a word or two, or look at the lettering closely before distinguishing the shapes and the punctuation.