A Letter

Once a week, sometimes twice, I stop by the post office to check my P.O. box. The sun is usually shining and the elk lay on the green grass. I walk past the bustle of tourists and bound up the post office steps. My heart beats a little more and adds to the excitement. I make a quick left in the vestibule and make a not so sharp right in the lobby. I approach the wall of postal boxes in excitement. There has to be something for me! Mine is on the top left. I reach up high with the key in hand. I unlock and open the little door, stand on my toes, and peer inside.

Most often, the space is hollow — a reflection of these lonely days. I focus on the nothingness to be sure that I didn’t miss anything. The cold, sleek metal sides and the unobstructed view of the ceiling on the other side verify my initial observation. Suddenly, I am a small insignificant in the vast lobby. I properly close the door and return to the flats of my feet. I turn and begin my discrete exit. I’m mindful not to let my head dip. I keep my eyes level, careful not to look at the ground. I walk down those post office steps; my head is still held high. Today, I’m a little farther away from home.

Sometimes, there is a mass of paper in my box. I grasp the contents and pull in excitement. There has to be some kind of treasure inside. With the large bundle in my hand, I feverishly separate the contents and look for something more personalized. There is nothing. The adds aren’t even addressed to me. I walk over to the recyclable bin and place everything inside. In my half-turn towards the door, I can’t help but wonder if I missed something. A piece of paper looks different. I reach into the garbage and slowly pick up the unique. Halfway, I discover that it is merely an impersonal insert. The advertisement doesn’t even apply to me. I can’t help but think that they provide this bin for people like me — those who are forgotten — those who receive nothing that matters.

Every now and then, I go with specific purpose. I get a message on my phone when the post office has a package for me. I’m excited! My first stop is to the lonely old post office box. I look inside and see a slip of paper. My high comes back to reality when I see the extent of personal communication. There is nothing else. I retrieve the slip that will give instruction to the person behind the counter. At the window, I don a smile and surrender the note. The postal person never smiles. They ignore my obvious excitement and complete the transaction. I wish them a good day even when they don’t. I walk down the post office steps, head held high, with my parcel under my arm. The vision in my mind isn’t the content of the package; instead, it’s the contents of the lonely old post office box.

The last few times that I stopped at the post office, I noticed that I was less excited. I walk up those steps with less vigor. There is no reason to stand on my toes for a better look. I discovered that I can slam the little door shut without turning the key. One solid movement, I quickly look though the bundle while I’m walking, pass the bin without stopping, launch the contents, and exit the lobby. My head is still held high as long as I’m not looking for the errant elk who is getting too close. I’ll give it another week, maybe more, before I stop again.

The other day, I received a text message from my mother, asking if I got the letter that she sent. Perhaps the question was a little bit of a spoiler but I was still excited. I was at work and had to wait until the end of the day to retrieve my letter. When I did, I bounded up those post office steps like I used to. My heart was beating a little faster; it added to the excitement. I made a quick left in the vestibule and a not so sharp right in the lobby. I approached the wall of postal boxes with renewed excitement. I knew that there was something for me! Mine is on the top left. I reach up high with the key in hand as I always do. I unlocked and opened the little door. I was sure to stand on my toes before I peered inside. There it was — a hand written letter that was addressed to me!

Bouts of loneliness happen while working away from home. Sure, I’m surrounded by many great people. I’ve made friendships that continue to grow and I think that some could be lifelong relationships. Nonetheless, I miss home and the people close to me. I can call and text; there is FaceTime and Skype. I’ve begun playing games with people back home, simply for the interaction. The interactions with loved ones, I miss.

An antiquated handwritten letter is more than a message; it’s tangible communication. From loved ones, a letter is almost an embrace — an embrace that can transcend distance. It’s an important representation of love.