Page 44 of Sterling Stone

Then again, could she have drawn this specific artwork just for me?

A large rock, almost near boulder size, sits beside the desert plant.

A cactus with snow melting on it, next to a giant stone.

I could read more into the drawing, but I don’t. I don’t understand why these letters keep coming to me, every six weeks almost to the date. Like she’s journaling her adventures for me.

She questions how strange it might be to miss the mountains at this time of year.

The only strange thing about this latest postcard is that she finally signed it with her name.

Taxi.

And no, I don’t think it’s strange to miss West Virginia.

It misses her, too.

17

February

[Stone]

An envelope arrives with a smaller envelope inside, and a rectangular card within the second enclosure looks like an old-school Valentine’s Day card. The cartoon caricature of Superman holds a heart-shaped piece of glowing green kryptonite.

Takes more than a cape to be a superhero. It takes heart.

A loopy heart-shape accompanies her name.

I don’t know what to make of the mail that comes every few weeks, I only know I don’t want them to stop. Because some sick part of me believes she’s sending these notes in hopes I’ll think of her.

And I want to believe sending them means she’s also thinking of me.

March follows suit with another postcard from Chicago, where Taxi attends a baseball game. She admits she doesn’t understand the rules of the sport. She was a literal one-hit wonder last summer, connecting with the ball and running like she’d scored a home run when she was an easy out.

We were a one-hit wonder as well.

But this card is a little fuller with details, one that explains how she has another commission working with kids and how much she enjoys teaching. She even hints she might like to retire one day. Maybe find a permanent teaching position.

Not that Sterling Falls has a university, but there is a small college outside of Huntington, only forty minutes from here. Then again, the mountainous terrain doesn’t exactly say urban outreach.

And I refuse to hope this means Taxi will settle here.

Still, I’m happy for her. She’s finding a new way to share her passion.

I only wish I could see her art in person.

In late April, it’s like the great unknown heard my request and I receive another postcard that’s a collage of images. More like a giant mural of murals that form Taxi’s face with skewed angles and odd shapes.

Don’t think I’ve ever mentioned I have an Instagram. If you ever want to know where I’m at or see my latest work, check it out.

Hugs, Taxi

Hugs. I focus on the word, reading more into it than I probably should as a man nearing fifty, not some love-sick fool of fifteen.

The sheriff’s department has an Instagram account for public service awareness, and we have a few burner accounts for surveillance, although the last time I needed to use Instagram was to investigate kids cyberbullying one another.

Being that I don’t have a personal account, or any social media for that matter, I holler for someone I know who does.