Until the Next Time

My dad worked in Africa for 17 years. After he married my mom in 1974, she joined him there. I was born in 1976, in Nigeria. We moved back to India when I was eight—and over the next 30 years, we shifted homes ten times.

Through every move, we carried this old briefcase—stuffed with photos from all over the world. London. Paris. Hong Kong. Kashmir. It was like our family time capsule.

After Dad passed, we asked Mom to move closer. While packing, we opened the briefcase again. Laughed, cried, relived old memories. And then—tucked deep inside—we found a postcard.

Addressed to me.
Dated 1972.
Four years before I was born.

It simply read:
“It only gets better. Until the next time.”

It wasn’t Dad’s handwriting. The stamp was too faded. And no one knew how it got there.

Later, while going through old papers, Mom gave me our horoscopes—mine, hers, Dad’s. They were handwritten by our family astrologer, SG.

When I opened Dad’s, I found a full life prediction inside. Detailed. Strangely accurate.

And then I saw it—the same handwriting as the postcard.

Signed: SG.

Maybe it was a message meant for my dad, sent at a time when he was uncertain about his future. Maybe SG addressed it to me because he knew one day I’d find it—when I needed it most.

Maybe not everything has to be explained. Maybe some stories are meant to be held, not solved.

All I know is…
My life’s already in the part where it’s getting better.
So I’ll wait.

Until the next time.