Both of my grandparents passed away recently, and in cleaning out their house, postcards we sent to them were found, saved away in a pile of newspaper clippings and various other artifacts they felt worthy of saving.

Maybe my dissolution with digital communication is getting too much, but I see quaint messages as containing an innocence lost in modern communication. They are inherently physical; tattered edges and very analog; bleeding and smudged inks. Both flaws in its production and scars from its journey through space and time.

Our postcard from Mexico took months to arrive in Canada, so long that we could have put our minds to biking back faster than its transit through the Mexican postal system.