for/against things that will come to pass

It was hard to recognize, then, what he actually meant by sending me those postcards. They were sent every Tuesday when dusk was not permitted to show its face. Part of my confusion was because of the season they were sent. It was so warm then; not the proper time, really, for personal stories scribbled intently on white sheets. In the afternoons, oddly, the postcards' faces smelt of rain. I was more confused about why he chose Tuesdays. Was there supposed to be something good happening on Tuesdays? Were there supposed to be bright-eyed girls hanging on to the arms of their green boys, so beside themselves with newness? Or was there the possibility of singular voices of clarinets, stomping forever inside my mother's cooking dress?No, no, those wild postcards were meant for something else -- for vigilant and cold springs, far from love.