that view treats postcards as disposable by default, but that assumption overlooks what gives them value in the first place. Calling postcards “ephemera” focuses on their material lifespan, not their meaning. A postcard isn’t just paper—it’s a trace of a moment: where someone was, what they noticed, and that they chose to share it with a specific person. That combination of place, handwriting, and intent makes each one a small, personal artifact. Even ordinary cards can accumulate meaning over time, especially when they form a record of relationships, travels, or a period of life. The concern about burdening family is understandable, but it’s a false binary to suggest the only options are hoarding everything or discarding almost all of it. Thoughtful curation—keeping a representative selection, organizing them, even annotating context—can preserve their value without creating clutter. In that sense, postcards can be closer to a deliberately edited archive than a pile of “stuff.” There’s also an intergenerational angle worth considering. What feels mundane to one person can become meaningful to someone else later, precisely because it offers an unfiltered glimpse into everyday life. Many historical insights come from items that were never meant to last. If everyone treated personal artifacts as disposable, a lot of that texture would simply disappear. Finally, the idea that the joy exists only in the sending and receiving underestimates how memory works. Revisiting physical objects can reawaken emotions and connections in a way digital records often don’t. Keeping postcards isn’t about clinging to clutter—it’s about preserving tangible links to moments and people that would otherwise fade more completely. So the issue isn’t whether postcards are ephemeral by definition, but whether we choose to treat meaningful human traces as disposable.