Working
as a mailman isn’t extravagant but with time, I’ve accepted it. What people
don’t understand about my job is that I know their names, can match them to
addresses and connect family members that look nothing alike. With my job, you
grow strangely attached to people you don’t even know.
A few
years in, I held a wedding invitation to be delivered.
I
haven’t seen any wedding invitations lacking a fancy envelope before, so this
one caught my attention. It had a picture of a woman with a spider chasing a
man, and I can’t help but smile at his horrified face. The caption says, “I
lost the bet. She used the picture,” and I find myself grinning at their
genuineness. I tuck this memory away fondly, and mentally congratulate the
soon-to-be Becketts.
A
couple years later, I delivered a baby shower invitation for the same couple.
My heart warms at the sight of the letter, still without an envelope. This
time, it’s a picture of the woman with a badly drawn mustache and the man
holding a marker with the caption “I lost. Enough said.” Despite this, they’re
both smiling.
I look
at the happy pair and wonder how much I’ve changed in comparison, but disregard
the thought because I feel the same.
The
first letter from their kid’s school (Elizabeth, I believe) comes in five,
maybe six years later. Occasionally, I catch a glimpse of her and her father
playing outside. I always wave to them, and they always wave back.
I’m
older now. I’ve stopped growing and my back hurts more often, but I’m still the
same as ever. I still deliver mail, still wave to Elizabeth and her family,
still drive around the same neighborhoods.
She
gets a letter from someone in Texas. When I approach their house, Elizabeth is
excitingly bouncing at the mailbox. I smile and hand her a stack of mail with a
“Here ya go, champ.” She digs through the pile until she finds a letter from
the stranger and runs to the front door squealing. I chuckle and start walking
back to my car when she suddenly turns around and waves at me, grinning and
showing off her missing front tooth. I wave back, feeling as if years of my
life have passed in an instant.
The
years continue on. I find that my back hurts more often and I’m starting to
feel strained when climbing stairs, but I’m still fine to roll out of bed to
deliver people’s mail.
Elizabeth
is taller now, and I watch as she grabs her father’s arm to help him out of
their car. His wife goes to his other side, and he gives her a silly smile
before wrapping an arm around her shoulders, rustling her hair, and bolting to
the door as she lets out a screech. He’s slower than before, but still plays
tag with Elizabeth.
I walk
back to my car slower than I used to.
The
next time I visit, Elizabeth and her father are outside again, except this time
he’s sitting down. His hair is thinner, I’ve noticed, and he lets out a few
brutal coughs before quickly sending a reassuring grin to a worried Elizabeth.
I meet his tired eyes and am surprised to find traces of grief. I smile grimly
and nod, and he sends a small grin back. It’s only a fraction of the one he
usually gives, and that’s all the confirmation I need. I walk back to my car
with a heavy heart.
It
takes less than a year before I don’t see him playing outside with Elizabeth
anymore, and not much longer before the hospital stops sending bills. I don’t
see Elizabeth for a while after that.
I
write my own letter and place it in their mailbox.
The next
day, Elizabeth’s mother is waiting for me and when I hand her their mail with
the usual “Good evening,” she responds with a sad smile and a weighted “Thank
you.” I see Elizabeth watching from the window, holding my letter in one hand,
and wave to her. She returns it, and for a fraction of a second I think I see
her smile.
According
to the letters, Elizabeth is in high school. I see her behind the wheel of a
car with her mother in the passenger seat, and it jerks forward before stopping
abruptly. They both burst out laughing, and that’s when I know they’ll be
alright.
I’ve
noticed that my eyesight is worsening. I have to start wearing glasses and my
posture is getting worse, but I’m still the same old me.
She’s
waiting at the mailbox one day, and I give her an encouraging “Good luck champ”
before handing her an envelope from a prestigious college. Nervously, she opens
it and scans its contents before bouncing in excitement and bolting to her
house. She pauses at the door before turning around and waving at me wildly,
and the scene is so familiar that I feel myself tearing up as I wave back. I
turn back to my car (it has gotten old) and try to stop thinking about the
smile I just saw. It was an exact replica of a man’s I saw over a decade ago.
The
next time I see Elizabeth, she has a backpack and some luggage. She catches my
gaze with a joyful “Good morning!” I respond with a stack of mail and a final
“Good luck, champ.”
After
a second, I remember and pull one more envelope out of my pocket. She looks at
it with a hint of confusion before reading the name and smiling warmly. Her
eyes are watery as she thanks me, and I remember a time when a father stood
with a cane by his mailbox to hand me a letter.
(“I
have a favor. Give this to her when she gets into college, alright? I don’t
know if I’ll be there, but I know you’ll be.”)
(That
was the last time I saw him.)
I see
her mother come out of the house and give her a tearful hug from my rearview
mirror. My own tears distort the image.
I
never see them again.
I’m
old. I can’t get out of bed on my own and instead lay there trying to remember
the moment I’d deteriorated to such a fragile state. I close my eyes with the
intention of taking a nap, wishing I had worn gloves because my hands are so,
so cold.
The
new mailman starts work a week later.
