#a7 :: Carrier pigeon message capsule (part 2)

I open the capsule. Inside, sildenafil the tightly-rolled message lies in wait, a fragile knot of mystery.

I pull it out with tweezers as carefully as I can (cotton gloves probably would have been far less intrusive, but I’m a geek, not an archivist) and unfold it.

Attempts to spread it flat are not quite futile, but close – it’s been opened and re-folded many times before, perhaps by antique dealers, perhaps by the son’s sons of the military man who received the original message and stuffed the capsule into a pocket after reading it in the previous century.

I photograph it, shoot a series of photos as I unfurl it, in case the whole thing just turns to dust.

Finally, I spread it under a clean sheet of thick glass and try to read it.

This is message number 2 declares the form printed on the wispy tissue, and it’s the original (where is the carbon?)

The words “Hourly” and “Feb” seem pretty clear. There appears to be a date – 1922 – or was that the distance? The location number?

There’s another word, written vertically – is it “Honolulu?” or “Honolilei?” The dot over the “I” mocks inspection, the rest is difficult if not impossible to read.

Who wrote this? Who was it meant for? And if one interpretation is correct, what happened in Honolulu that day, some 86 years ago?

The message topples back into the unknown and unknowable – another lost experience, another missed connection. Another secret of the dead.