Postcard from Canada
When I have picked up Uncle Albert, escorted him down from his front porch and helped him into the passenger seat - and I’ve gotten into the front seat - of the car, he pulls a picture postcard out of his jacket pocket and holds it up. “This is for you,” he says, “when we are done at the doctor’s.”
My doctor’s, not his. I am still seeing Dr. Feight twice a week, Monday’s and Thursday’s at eleven. Uncle Albert continues to accompany me, to read the magazines in the waiting room while I talk about whatever comes to mind at the time. Then, afterwards, we have lunch. Usually, I make us sandwiches, BLT’s or egg- or chicken- (or tuna-) salad or PB&J, or . . . today it’s bologna with mustard, mayo, and a slab of lettuce. We drink Pepsis or a glass of milk. Sometimes, there are store-bought cookies though not today.
I hope the postcard is from Cousin Jack, more recent than the last one Uncle Albert showed me,* new even. Instead, it’s from our trip last year,** through New York City and Ottawa, through Sudbury and the Upper Peninsula, then back.
On the front is Cassio’s Bar BQ. On the back Uncle Albert has written in thick pencil: “The fortunate vastly underrate the importance of luck, and they force their calculations on everyone else.”
“Especially on the least fortunate,” he says as he hands it to me.
“You make pretty good sandwiches,” he says after a few bites. “This is pretty good bologna.”
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