The bell rang. I ran outside, a postman waited patiently in front of the house. “Grandma! Grandma! Here it comes!” I said happily. She signed a paper-something and let me accept what the postman brought: a postcard.
February 6th, 1993. I was 5, and the postcard came exactly on my birthday. It’s not an usual postcard, because the sender, was my Dad.
He worked abroad for about 6 months. Few months before, I also received postcards from where he went. Berlin, Amsterdam, and few more cities that I didn’t remember. But everytime I asked my Grandma where is Dad now, she always answered, “Europe, honey. It’s far away from here. Even the language is not similar with the one that we used to say.”
I can see that clearly in the birthday postcard. It’s from London. The postcard filled with picture of places, each of them got a name that written below, and I just couldn’t spell it right. I didn’t remember the pictures, but I can guess it now… Maybe Big Ben, Thames River, Westminster Abbey… British Museum.
Then I started to imagine, my Dad was there. Walking along Thames River, seeing the city from the top of London Bridge, sniffing colourful flowers that perfectly bloomed on spring.
Through postcard, I could see my Dad. I knew where he went, made me sure he’s okay. Through postcard, I couldn’t stop imagine tens thousand places on earth worth traveling for.
Currently, even though people can easily see the photos of destination or follow one traveler’s journal on social media, I just can’t forget what a simple postcard gave to me… A hope to a little girl who missed her Dad so much.