IN WHICH THE MAILMAN AND I HAVE A FALLING OUT

The mailman and I are not such good friends anymore.

This is not to say that I have ever met him.  Libby gives us plenty of warning well before his daily arrival on our porch, and one would think he had come to rob us blind, so ferocious are her growls as he approaches the front door.  But I was growing to think well of him despite all that.  He brought several very welcome items to our mailbox, and he even carried away in timely fashion, although I initially doubted him, the letters which I clipped to the lid of the box.

My father always eagerly anticipated the coming of the mail, and our mailman’s name was mud if he failed to bring something – even if it bore the impersonal stamp of a business, it was enough.  Now Mark has taken up the job: he comes home from work each day with a mission to discover whatever fresh correspondence has come our way.  The habitual excitement of the men in my life had taught me, for a time, to think well of the mail-person.

Our mailman, however, has the task of redemption at hand.  My trust in him had grown so much that yesterday, passing up a conveniently located drop box on an excursion to the library, I chose instead to leave a piece of outgoing mail on our porch with blind faith that he would pick it up when he brought his daily deliveries.

But oh, what misplaced confidence!  The usual time for the mailman’s coming passed without any signaling storm of barking from Libby.  I was prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt until I happened to see him descending from the porch of our next-door neighbor.  And yet the letter I had wanted him to take remained firmly fastened to our mailbox.

Still I waited, wondering if he had gone to get his truck (as he must sometime surely do) and if he might not soon return.  He did not.

You have fallen from grace, Mr. Postman.  Not only did you bring us nothing, but you left stranded a particularly important piece of mail.

Forgiveness is not easily won, sir.