The Mailbox

You never did mind going out to get the mail- it was the bringing it in that was the problem. Going outside, that was fine. Taking a stroll, getting some sun (sometimes for the first time that day), that was all well and fine. Ambling up the long winding driveway, perfect. It was the old rusty mailbox on the corner, right next to that dangerous road that people took way to fast- that was the issue. It was the way that that hinge needed to be fixed. It squeaked horribly, needed to be yanked open, nearly pulling the rotting mailbox peg out of the ground with the door as it clanged open to relieve itself of the mail. It was that terrible flag that always threatened to hit you in the hands whenever you touched the thing. It was the way that the mail always smelled just a little funny, like metal, whenever you took it out. It was a thick smell even if it wasn’t strong. It got in your clothes, stuck to you. It followed you back up the drive, back through the plants, back into the house. You wanted nothing to do with it. You wanted the walk but you didn’t want to have to go and get the mail. 

That day (ah, you remember it like it was yesterday), it was bright and sunny, thick clouds rumbling in that reeked of rain. Squinting against the dappled sunlight, you watched the leaves on the trees. Your mother had always repeated the old family line, that if the leaves on the trees were flipping over, that meant that a big storm was on the way. They were dancing, but their waxy, green tops were still visible. You sighed, hand outstretched, waiting for any sign to forestall the upcoming walk to the terrible box on the corner. You waited… and waited…. and waited. Was that a drop that you felt? Something? Anything? No. Just your soggy hopes and desires dashed against the rocky shore of disappointment. Not able to put it off any longer, you stepped off the front porch, socked feet crunching painfully against the hard cement of the walk. You make this mistake every time, even trying to avoid it by leaving shoes by the front door. Still, there’s something different about walking outdoors without them, even if it makes the laundry just a little more difficult later. 

It truly was a gorgeous day. A nice afternoon spent doing pretty much nothing. In fact, you couldn’t really remember what you had been up to. You had loved those days the most, the ones where the activity wasn’t the most important thing. It wasn’t a race against the clock. It wasn’t an all out sprint from one thing to the next. You let yourself enjoy the coming electricity in the air that always waits just before the big storm you feel on the horizon. You let breath fill your lungs as the wind played lightly with loose strands of your hair, tugging gently at your shirtsleeves. You let it run through your fingertips as if it were a tangible, living thing. If only it were always this easy. If only things were never so difficult. Never stressful. Never troublesome. If only you never had to worry about anything anymore. If only you could be at rest for once, like this forever. If only. Your eyes closed, but only for a second. 

You know this walk like the back of your hand. You have to do it every day, six days a week (but not on national holidays), don’t you? You know that here, here you have to stop, move the thorns that grow over the path, shift around the side so as not to get caught. It’s easy to fall into that trap. You’ve made that mistake one too many times. This time though, you won’t. Twisting to the side, you step around them, missing their grasping points, desiring to strike deep into your flesh and the fabric of your clothes. Not today, you think to yourself, continuing on, the mental note forming, just like it does every day, to cut those back, remove those grabbing branches and make the pathway habitable again. 

The mailbox in sight, your mood sours. It ceases to be a nice walk outside in the nature around your house and again becomes a chore, a routine that must be completed to be a successful adult, a person who lives and works in the world who receives the same garbage that all the other persons in the neighborhood receive. The path under your feet becomes dirtier, the asphalt broken up and sharper. The grass is dingier and dying where the salt and runoff from the road has been splashed up onto it. All the attempts that you’ve made to make it a little nicer have failed. The grass never wanted to come back up as the thick green of the rest of the yard. The rocks that you placed around the base of the mailbox itself scattered to the four winds. The plants that you planted amongst the said rocks died almost immediately despite your very best attempts. Eventually, you stopped trying. Why even bother. 

Grabbing the rusted handle, you begin your grapple to open the tiny door. Why do you have to fight to get to the mail? It’s your mail. It’s like trying to open a present received from someone who has the nasty habit of going tape- happy but the person is your worst enemy and the present is a bunch of magazines and bills with an extra helping of tetanus. You grab and pull at the mailbox, trying your hardest not to think about what the neighbors must be seeing as it has taken you, an adult, far longer than it should to get a mailbox open. It must be stuck again. You don’t want to have to make the trek back up the path to get the screwdriver….

You hear footsteps. People are coming down the driveway. Your siblings? They’re dressed all in black. They don’t look right. Your sister reaches out to grab the mailbox handle. You yank your hand back, passing out of her way moments before she grabs the metal. You want to scold her, tell her how rude she was being, in your own house, too, but she pulls the door open with ease. Brow furrowed, you can’t register that she’s saying something. All you’re looking at is the letter inside the mailbox. It’s cream colored, sitting strangely, out of place, on the brightly colored advertisements for the local grocery store. You recognize the return address vaguely, but from where you’re exactly not sure. These days, you seem to be losing a lot of those minor details that make up a personality. You’re not sure exactly where they’re going or, at this point, if you really had all of them in the first place. Maybe you just thought that you did. 

Your brother takes the letter off the top and gently opens it. You never had that much patience for the mail in your entire life. It was one of the main differences between you and him. He could wait but you ripped it to shreds. Standing behind him, you peer over his shoulder. Of course he was a good deal taller than you which made this difficult, but the words that you could see were blurry and hard to make out. 

“‘I wasn’t sure where else to send this, so I sent it here. I wanted to offer my condolences. I’m so sorry. I can’t believe…’ It’s all the same nonsense from there pretty much,” he said. Your sister sighed, rubbing her head in her hands. That word. ‘Condolences’. You stop, looking at them in their black clothes, standing alone on your driveway sorting through your mail for you. No. No, no, no. 

You try to run, turn away from them, back up the pathway, back away from the broken asphalt and the mailbox with the open door that looks like a gaping mouth, a wound that’s grinning at you, smiling like it knows something that you don’t. You try to run but your legs feel like jelly. You can’t make the turns right. You try to twist past the thorn- bushes but they grab at you, sinking into you, rending your skin and your clothes, pulling you down.

And then the world

Goes

Black. 

You never did mind going out to get the mail- it was the bringing it in that was the problem.