The Perfect Postcard
Written by Natalie Zuckowski. Graphic by Ananya Panchal.
Another letter arrives, and I still haven’t managed to send one back to my friend. It isn’t for lack of interest, but when her first postcard arrived mid-June, a relic of her trip to Maine, I was in awe of her crab-clad cardstock overflowing with pressed flowers, scenic Polaroids, and souvenir stickers pouring from the envelope. From then on, every time I sat down to put my own summer update together, I was ashamed of my meager pen pal supplies and put it off.
Hope touches down in the form of a beach trip with my family. Between sunbathing and boogieboarding, I peruse charming gift shops for the perfect postcard. Something, anything worthy of her beautiful illustrations and breathtaking adventures. Nothing compared. My one chance at the picturesque, yet I return to landlocked Pennsylvania empty- handed.
These gorgeous glimpses into Maine, Cape Cod, and Block Island find their places on my walls. It warms my heart thinking about her thinking about me amid her summer fun. They get elaborate. She decorates them with masterpieces of foliage and fauna I know would have taken me ages to illustrate. “Drew these while at Judith Point!” she writes.
I get another chance at finding a card at another beach, but nothing on the boardwalk excites me. Everywhere I go, she is in the back of my mind, and everywhere I go, I am disappointed. On top of this, I’m jealous that she lives in a place so plentiful with opportunities for quaint beach shops and sandy shells and everything that summer should be, from the eyes of a woman from western PA.
My friends and I take a day trip to Pittsburgh, the city we visit when Taylor Swift is playing Heinz Field or there’s a Pirates game downtown. We get brunch, we walk up and down the Strip District, and something catches my eye. A bright, multicolored Andy Warhol-themed pierogi postcard. Perfect. As our day unfolds, I gather an impressive collection of pieces from vintage flower markets, striped candy booths, and even the history museum, all local to the city I call home.
An appreciation for my home blossoms while I write on this pierogi paper, and I can’t help but remember all the pressure I put on trying to find something “worthy.” Sometimes the things we build up in our heads are within our reach the entire time.
My masterpiece is sent out, and I can rest easy. I apologize for my lack of pen- palling, but I assure her I have a sufficient stock of material to send for the rest of the summer. In writing out my procrastinating struggles, I realize one very important thing: “If I ever go looking for the perfect postcard again, I won’t look any further than my own backyard.”
