"Postcards from Laura."
Twenty eight cents.
FEBRUARY 22—In 2010, a postcard stamp cost all of twenty eight cents—one could buy a card and mail it too for not much more than a dollar. That was the year I left Seattle and moved north to live with my parents, the year I was forced by illness to quit a much-loved job, the year I lost what was left of my independence and became—legally as well as functionally—disabled. It was the year Laura began sending postcards.
Laura and I met in 2007, when she joined the University of Washington research institute where I had been working for close to a decade. I was administrative staff. She came on board as a research scientist. Her Ph.D. was in atmospheric sciences, mine in American studies.
Despite our distinct professional backgrounds and places in the organization, we struck up a friendship almost immediately. Laura volunteered to help with the education and outreach program I coordinated. She created and led workshops and hands-on activities for school-age children from around the state.
We were colleagues for three brief years. I had already been diagnosed with ME/CFS by the time we met and was struggling with severe fatigue, muscle weakness, and cognitive problems. Holding onto a job and taking care of myself were increasingly difficult.
Considering the brevity of our acquaintance, and my inability to sustain friendships because of my maladies, it would have been easy, indeed quite natural, for us to drift apart when I had to quit work. Laura chose another path altogether.
Whether it was a brief phone call, or a short visit whenever she had reason to drive north, Laura made the effort to stay in touch. She adjusted to and respected my significant limitations but refused simply to let me go. Whenever she visited, she came with a smile and always left me with one.
Oh—but the postcards!
I have cards from cities and places spanning the country, from Yellowstone and Glacier National Parks to the Oregon Coast, and from much closer to what used to be home: Mount Rainier, the San Juan Islands, and Seattle. I have postcards from Europe, New Zealand, and the southernmost tip of Argentina, where Laura boarded a cruise ship for a voyage to the Antarctic. (The postcard mailed from Antarctica never arrived.) Whether she was visiting her parents in western New York, traveling for work, or on vacation, Laura sent a postcard—sometimes two. Other kind and generous friends sent them as well, but Laura’s filled a small box.
Wonderful though it was to see glossy photos of all the interesting places she visited, my greatest delight was in reading her brief notes. I took particular pleasure in the beauty of her cursive script. It was those utterly unique, and yet oh-so-human marks that connected me most closely with my friend. Laura’s postcards—a small gesture—amounted to a profound expression of compassion and kindness. Isolated and housebound, alone and lonely, I knew I was not forgotten.
I look outside the window as I write this. It is 21 degrees in Norfolk on this clear, sunny morning. In the deep shadows on the north side of the cottage, the leaves of an overgrown rhododendron are curled tightly in the biting cold. Those at the top, bathed in sunlight, have unfurled in the warmth.
Friendship. Warmth. Laura was my sunshine.