Picture-postcard

Jonah sends me a picture-postcard from Alexandria. The deep blue Mediterranean is slid upon my starched-white crocheted table-cloth. Filigree of my hand-craft shies away behind the heavy prism, my Gran's favorite mantle piece. NO light passes through it now. The blue is that deep, almost opaque.

Jonah's hands fly free in the air, her sweetness that I still remember after a hundred years, airbrushed the postcard. She has left her hair to grow into glistening frame and hide all that were not to be seen, not to be imagined, left to be forgotten, to be folded back, trimmed out. In those curls are held the stories of black mornings and grey nights; in that swimsuit her fragile body winds around a crepe scarf like a dead tendril.

"Jonah looks beautiful!". My Gran knows not of the heavy waves that have lashed over her body before the picture is clicked.
No one knows what's with her in her yatch, but I.
I, her pen-friend.