Mailboxes

There is something unabashedly romantic about a mailbox. Sure, we usually see bills; discount coupons; junk mail; and more bills. But once in awhile we receive: a letter from a friend we haven't heard from in ages; an invitation to a wedding we hoped would happen; an acceptance letter of some sort; a holiday card from someone who never usually sends them; a love letter; a care package filled with candies, music, a used book with a message written on the inside flap. I love checking the mail every day. And I'm not even disappointed when I see all those bills and whatnot. I know that's par for the course. I just love seeing that familiar handwriting and knowing that I get to open the envelope, dig out the paper, read an adventure in a friend's life.

Sigh. You postal people rock!

Plus, as a side note, isn't it fun to study different kinds of mailboxes? There are the metal ones to the side of one's door; metal and plastic ones along the curb; "regular" ones and ones shaped like fishes, or homes, or other cool things. On my way to work, there are these two metal mailboxes side-by-side. They are along a main strip of highway, next to a telephone pole, supported in the background by a dirty gravel lot, a few tumbleweeds, and lots of open space (with some plain office-y buildings far in the distance). What especially strikes me--besides the fact these are the Mailboxes that Time Has Forgotten--is that one of them is missing its back, and you can see right through to the other side. Sometimes, esp. when I'm stopped at the light at the intersection and happen to be lined up with them, I can see a cloudy sky; a purple sky with the sun rising; rain falling. It's quite rare and beautiful. Even more amazing: sometimes the mailbox is closed and sometimes it's open. Are there secret exchanges going on? I've often had the urge to address a letter to Whomever Finds It, and tuck it in the mailbox, hoping that a man or woman or girl or boy finds it and is comforted, for just a few moments, by a stranger's passing words.