The mail box: a small blue box with a portal for material possessions on their way to a new home, monetary obligations being sent, and not least of all, expressions of love.
The mail box has sent many a note, letter and postcard from my hand. Such a simple pleasure to send or receive that precious note from Mom or Grandma, the blissful joy of a love letter, a thank you note for kindnesses extended in joy and sorrow.
The mail box, an inanimate partner in the joining of two minds, stands alone on the corner always at the ready for that precious cargo. That mailbox sent cards to a dying mother and an ailing mother-in-law, and unseen sailors at sea.
Today it looks lonely, and; I know why it makes me sad to see it. There is a loss of habit, a loss of that person who made it useful, that loss of purpose in someones else's life.
Maybe it will look happier tomorrow, or next week or next month, or...
