Imagine your text messages were for sale. Imagine a girl, much younger than the usual patron of an antique store, digging through a box of your most intimate correspondences. Imagine she buys them, takes them home, and tries to piece together what you might have been trying to say—who you might have been talking to, where you might have been writing from, what the response might have been. Imagine she gets it all wrong: thinks you were a firefighter, but, really, you were a line cook. Maybe she thinks you were in love with a certain man, but you really couldn’t stand the sight of him. Maybe she thought your hair was blonde when it’s as black as the ink on the postcard. But imagine, for a moment, that she actually gets it right—how fascinating a thing that would be.

***

I have collected old postcards for years, though only the ones with writing on the back. I can easily see pictures of places online, but postcards are not just pictures: they’re chosen deliberately and individually to carry home a story or a question or an invitation. It feels like I am holding a story in my hands. I enjoy the speculation.

Usually, when I sort through an antique store’s box of postcards, I look for a few things:

• Can I read the handwriting?
• Is this written to or from a name on a postcard I already have?
• Have I been to this town or landmark?

Very rarely do I find postcards that go together, but in the back of the second floor of Nostalgia Antiques, I find a pair undoubtedly written by the same person.

This first postcard was sent on September 25, 1950 from Onset, MA to Wareham, MA.

The cursive is easier to read than most cursives of the time, but the misspellings throw me off. Finally, after zooming in and checking my transcription against the card, I settle on a transcription that feels right:

High Mrs. Rose, I hope you got home OK. Got your buss and did you see the 2 ladies that were here. They went back home. They are nice, hope to see you soon. Come often. 

From Nellie

I imagine Mrs. Rose, whoever she is, receiving this card from a sender I imagine to be a little girl. The misspellings (or maybe I am not reading it right?) remind me of how I wrote as a kid. Perhaps Mrs. Rose is her piano teacher or tutor or nanny.

I imagine that Mrs. Rose wrote her back, though the antique store didn’t have any of those cards. It makes sense: Mrs. Rose kept these postcards she received, and, somehow, someway, they ended up at a vintage store in Providence, Rhode Island.

A postcard, one that I have simply decided is from Mrs. Rose, reads:

Dear,

I am proud of your progress. You should be too. I believe I am moving to Fairhaven. Not too far, just a half hour or so. Write me at 71 Center Street.

Love you.

P.S. Remember your punctuation.

The second purchased postcard from Nellie was from seven years later: July 3rd, 1957.

My transcription reads: 

Dear Mrs. Rose, Just a line. Well here it is, another year gone. Don’t they go fast? Hope you are well if I don’t write I think of you just the same. Have not heard from you for sometime.

From, Nellie

Why would Nellie not have heard from her? What might have happened?

Mrs. Rose said she was moving to 71 Center Street, but she ended up at 584 Washington Street—why?

Google informs me that 71 Center Street was (and still is) Our Lady’s Haven Skilled Nursing & Rehabilitative Care. So maybe she never moved in? Maybe she decided she’d rather live on her own or with a spouse? The facility is in an old inn, established in 1951—just after the letter was sent.

I flip the postcards around to read Mrs. Rose’s full name. The first one doesn’t include a first name, but the second one does. I just can’t read it. Mabel, maybe?

I open Google with a longshot search: Mrs. Mabel L Rose Fairhaven Massachusetts obituary. 

Multiple Fairhaven sights come up but only with recent obituaries. There’s a Mabel Alice Morrison Rose in Boston (close enough?), born in 1903 and who passed away in 1986. It could be her, but maybe not—and either way, it wouldn’t explain why she stopped replying to Nellie.

I switch Fairhaven out for Wareham and look again. Nothing. Perhaps just Massachusetts, no city attached? The same result appears: Mabel Alice Morrison Rose, born and buried in Massachusetts. 

Then a second match: Mabel Perry Rose, 1906-1994, a Massachusetts woman through and through as well. Born in Plymouth County and buried in Bristol County. 

What county is Wareham Massachusetts in? I search next.

Plymouth County. 

What county is Fairhaven Massachusetts in? I cross my fingers for Fairhaven to be in Bristol County, and for the postcard Mabel Rose to match the obituary website Mabel Rose.

Bristol County.

“Bingo,” I whisper, bookmarking the pages. This Mabel Rose married a man named Alfred Rose, son of a mill operative. Together, they had three kids: Jeanette, Alfred, and Carol.

Still, I am not sure how confident I can be about this being the recipient of the postcards. Did I even read the name right? 

Left with only my speculation to fill in the gaps, I imagine her reply:

Nellie,

I am so sorry I haven’t gotten back to you! I hope you are well. Would love to have you for dinner sometime soon. Loving it here.

Love,

Mrs. Rose

If I had more of their postcards, or if I had any of her response cards, maybe I could piece together the story more completely. I resolve to keep checking Nostalgia, though I know the odds of any more appearing are slim. I imagine both Nellie and Mrs. Rose are not around anymore, but I like the idea that in a way, I can keep them alive. I imagine they exchanged dozens more letters over the years, shared stories over home-cooked dinners, and perhaps even celebrated the holidays together. And perhaps those postcards are out there somewhere, maybe even picked up by another girl at another antique store.