This one came through Postcrossing. Somewhere in Finland, a stranger was given my name and address at random, along with my profile. They read it, saw that I love lighthouses, and went looking for one to send me. I will never meet them.
They found a good one.
Bengtskär. A granite tower on a bare rock in the Gulf of Finland, out where the skerries give way to open water. It is the tallest lighthouse in the Nordic countries, built in 1906 after too many ships came to grief on these rocks.
The photograph makes it look like a holiday. Pink granite warming in the sun. Bright weed at the waterline. A red boathouse, a white boat tied up, the sea an impossible blue. It is the kind of place summer only visits.
It has seen worse days. In the summer of 1941, Soviet troops landed on the island to put the light out. The Finns held it. Men died on that rock so a lamp could keep turning.
Then you turn it over.
The back is where you find out who sent it.
Four stamps, and one of them is a lighthouse. Russarö, red and white, 2003, first class. Beside it, a little lighthouse sticker for good measure. A lighthouse postcard, carrying a lighthouse stamp, wearing a lighthouse badge.
None of that was an accident. They read a few lines about a stranger in England and built the whole card around him. Someone sat at a table in Finland and took the trouble.
I think about that more than the picture.
The front of a postcard is for everyone. It was printed by the thousand, chosen off a rack, made to be looked at. The back is for one person. The stamps someone picked out. The handwriting. The small decision to add a sticker nobody asked for.
Most of us spend our effort on the front. The part that gets seen.
The best things I own are the backs of things.
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