Ode to A Mailbox

 


Oh, my poor white mailbox; over the years of wind and rain the red letters on you have faded away.  No longer can you clearly read the word  MAIL.  Perhaps that's why the mailperson didn't know what you were and instead threw my mail (my beloved tax documents) on the cold brick stairs.  Perhaps she did not know that the piece of mail that I left in you was there for her to pick up.  (She must not like American Express.)  Or perhaps she thought the one small patch of ice on the step was too much to handle while talking on the phone? (Though she stomps across the uneven lawn with its patches of ice and snow with not a care in the world.)

I love you poor white mailbox. You hold firm to the front of my brick home, even as the weather batters you and the elements taunt you.  Even though at least once a month the mail person chooses to ignore you. (Such as she did on December 28, 2021...I love you so much that I keep track of these things.) Passing you buy with nary a care and not filling your cold empty inside with warm bills, solicitations and weekly circulars.  (How you must ache for the circulars...I know I do.)  You may not be loved by the postal carrier, but you have the love of my family as we rush to the door to check and see if you hold any treasures. 

Feel not too sad my poor white mailbox.  Though she has passed you by time after time; as she has ignored you so our Ring ignored her.  She is too far away for the yearning camera to capture her countenance.  Instead my dear Ring only gives a fleeting glimpse of her puffy down jacket and official blue pants as she strides away from your seeing eye moving on to the next residence.  (And perhaps some hot gossip from the person speaking so loudly on her earpiece.)

White mailbox, I know you are sad.  I feel your loneliness and am compelled to contact the USPS to let them know how empty you are inside.  Fear not, for I am sure they will rush to your aid and I will get a nasty call from our local agent who will react in a way that would only happen if I went over her head.

Let us wait for tomorrow little white mailbox.  There is always the hope that you will be filled with delayed holiday cards and higher education solicitations for my son from colleges far and near that offer promises of admissions but not majors that interest him.  Perhaps tomorrow will bring you a Val-Pak or a bank statement.

Remember, little white mailbox, as Scarlett O'Hara so famously said, "Tomorrow is another day."


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