Page 33 of Until Next Time
I decide on my favorite pair of Levis, skinny, but not too tight, and a simple white tank top and my favorite cropped sweater that has embroidered strawberries all over it. If there’s a clothing item with a cute version of food somewhere on it, I will absolutely buy it every single time. I think it’s a condition. Undiagnosed, but feels clinical.
I check my bag and make sure I’ve got everything I need for the day, going down my mental checklist. Favorite chap stick,check. Sketchbook, check. Wallet, check. Extra set of panties, Check—hey, you just never know.
I head over to my desk and pull open the top drawer and snag a vintage postcard from my collection. I’ve been collecting postcards and random photos from thrift shops since I was a kid. When I moved to the city, I left my collection here but I started a collection there as well. I guess old habits die hard. Or not at all.
I pick a card with a picture of some farm in Virginia. Simple, plain, and blank. I love the way old postcards have changed color over time. The yellowing of the paper, the worn edges. I grab a pen from my purse and write the first thought that enters my brain and scrawl it across the back of the postcard.
I cheated on every typing test we took in grade school. To this day, I still don’t know how type with my fingers on the correct keys.
-Until next time.
Anytime I share a secret into the town’s post box, it feels so nostalgic. All those Fridays, reading secret after secret as I scrolled the blog posts. Every human emotion felt like it came through that screen, pulling directly on my heart strings. They ranged from deeply personal, to the most tragic things I’ve ever read, some that even haunt me to this day.
That man no longer updates his blog, but the memory lives on in many published books containing pages and pages of secrets from people all over the world.
The postbox in town is emptied weekly and those secrets are displayed in our local bookstore—Nook & Novel. It’s made for a fun tourist attraction and an extension of the original blog.
I didn’t initially have the courage to send in a secret back when the blog was still being updated, but I did start submitting secrets to our small town post box. The first time I did, I wasso nervous. I was convinced that everyone was going to know it was me. But since then, I have a little joke with myself and say that it’s therapy for me, because for some reason, writing down thoughts you’ve never shared or said out loud and leaving them for someone to find, it brings me an odd sense of calm and relief, whatever that thought may be.
So, today feels like a good day to cash in on a little therapy session.
* * *
Once I deposit my secret into the worn cherry red post box bolted to the sidewalk, I head into the bookstore and I’m greeted with the most warm and delicious smell. Books, coffee and the bourbon candle that Mira has burning near the register, as she always does.
The home I grew up in was never anything fancy, and we didn’t have an excess of money, but my mom always managed to create the coziest atmosphere at home. It always felt like safety and love. I know not every person has this gifting, but I know for certain that Mira does too because anytime you walk into her book store, you feel that same sense of calm—a safe place to land. A place you can hang your coat up and know you‘ll be met with warmth not only for your body, but for your soul.
“Birdie, baby, it’s so good to see you again. It’s been a few weeks. What’s got you too busy that you don’t have time for your frequent pop ins?” I give her a warm smile as I make my way around the counter to give her a hug. I wrap my arms around her middle and press my cheek against her shoulder and sink into a hug. I hug her like I would my mother, because she’s kind of likemy second one anyways with how much time I’ve spent with her in her bookstore.
“I know, right? My new boss is a real drag.” I say, teasing, slowly pulling out of our embrace.
“I am dying to see your mural all finished. It’s looking incredible. I saw it just the other day. I had myself a little happy hour, and closed the shop a little early.”
“I love small towns. So unhinged. You just close shop down early because you want to get tipsy. I forget the charm of that. I must have become more city than I realized.” I say, as I reflect on that a little bit, letting my mind drift.
“Oh honey, you know what they say. You can take the girl out of the small town, but you can’t take the small town out of the girl.”
“Mira, I don’t think that’s the saying.”
“Well, you know what I mean. Just because you’ve been living in the big city doesn’t mean you’re no longer a good ol’ country girl. You’ve just got a little extra shine on you these days.” She uses her hands to flamboyantly get her point across and adds, “Well, at any rate, I’m glad you’re back sweetheart. Can I help you find anything today?”
Mira is the only other soul who knows about my therapy sessions, mostly because the postbox is right outside the shop and she has a direct view of it. I ended up telling her about my slight obsession with the whole thing and how good it feels to have finally been able to say these things out loud, even if it was just writing my thoughts down for no one in particular to read.
Mira is a a saint of a woman and an absolute vault and assured me that she’d keep that little secret between us, and that she also wouldn’t read my secrets, since she knew which ones were mine. I sort of give myself away because I end all my secrets like I would if I was writing to an old friend.Until next time.
Because for me, there’s always going to be a next time. Another confession, another written truth. I’m filled to the brim with them. I wish everyone knew how good it felt to say things out loud, silently.
All these years later, Mira is still one of my favorite people. Small towns just breed them differently. In this moment, back here, in between these rows of books, I feel like I never want to leave.
I tell Mira that I’m actually just here to grab a hard copy of the last book I read on my Kindle.
I bought the e-reader to help me save money on books, but it’s really not helped at all because I am a collector of things, if you haven’t noticed by now, which means I need to collect the physical copies of the books that I love, which means that I’m saving zero dollars, and continuing to feed into my book buying habit. I make myself feel better by assuring myself that there are worse habits and things I could be spending my money on. Like meth or cocaine. Yeah, drugs. Books are my drugs, baby.
* * *
I pay for my new book and I slide it into my purse, exchange goodbyes with Mira and make my way to Southbound. It’s still about an hour before Dawsen said he wanted to head out, but I figure I can work on a few things and finish some sketches before we hit the road.
The winery is surprisingly busy for a Monday, and I luckily found a small table in the corner near the bar. I slide in, and grab my sketchbook from my bag. I open it up to the last page I was working on when I feel a person hovering over me.
