diary / by Edward Mullany


On a postcard in the shop of a museum that I’d visited with a friend who’d said my name, and had beckoned to me, when she’d seen the postcard in question, knowing that it would appeal to me, due to the subjects that absorbed me, was a drawing that I liked so much that I figured I’d buy it on our way out, before we left and went outside, although, because we remained a few minutes longer, looking at posters and magnets and things, so that I didn’t immediately hold onto the postcard, and take it to the cashier, but wandered around a while, at times with my friend, and other times by myself, we departed before I remembered to return to the rack and pick it up, although, after we were gone, and were making our way down the street beside a canal, and were talking of other things, like the movement of the water, and the ducks that were swimming in the water, in groups and on their own, it appeared to me in my mind, the postcard did, so that I said something about it, or made an exclamation, to the effect that I wondered whether I ought to run back and get it, and I almost did so, though I did not, in the end, for my friend said to me, in a voice that was funny and emphatic, though not unserious, “No, Edward, remember it.”