Some have accused me of having a slight obsession with mail carriers. It stemmed from my infatuation with those in uniform (or costumes, as I see it). They symbolize super-heroes–delivering something special everyday minus Sundays and special holidays. They are unfazed by bad weather conditions or traffic jams. They are unstoppable and mysterious.
When I was younger, and my parents took me to a restaurant, I would check out the desserts first, to make sure the rest of the meal was worth engaging in. I wanted to know what I was working for. Now, I enter buildings or homes and check out the location of the mailbox. The size. Shape. Colour. Location. Attached to the house or at the end of a driveway? Do you need a key to get in or can you just tilt it open? Is there a flag to raise, to alert your mail carrier that you have something that needs sending?
I bring this up for a reason. I am getting a new mailbox. Preparing for a change of address form so that none of my mail is lost or undelivered. I am moving, which means a brand new mailbox will be waiting for me. And my mail. And the letters I will send because I do my part to keep these postal workers in business. (I already claim quite a bit of guilt for banking online).
I must say goodbye to my current mailman, Rusty, and learn who my new one will be. I will find out the time of day in which my mail will be delivered and look forward to this time. Currently: between 2 and 3pm depending upon weather and amount.
There is sadness in change, the unknown, the new routes and people I do not know (yet). I have had four mailboxes in Colorado and I have been here under three years. Four kitchens. Many windows. Rotation of neighbors and noises. Sometimes, I wish I had just enough things to strap on my back, making a move much easier. Alas, I am a reader. My books have followed me from New Jersey to New York to Colorado. In boxes sent in the mail delivered by polyester-soaked postal workers.
My new mailbox is black. Wider than the rest. Flips open. There will be a key, which I haven’t gotten yet. And it is attached to a house. A red one, that I will soon live inside with my favorite Canadian and our dog. I am thinking about asking Rusty if he could change his route and follow me to my new address. Or, maybe I should just embrace this change. Say goodbye to the man who has a built-in fan in his hat for the hot months. He is quite a mailman. Sometimes, I order things just to keep him working. I’m lying. Most times, I order things just so that I can get something in the mail that isn’t a student loan or electric bill.
Change can be exciting, I guess. It incorporates mystery and excitement into one’s life. Like, when you go to a restaurant and there is no dessert menu. You feel let down and suddenly, no longer hungry. But, you are with a group of people, and you’re an adult, and cannot be ruled by sweets anymore. So you stay. Eat a hamburger or bowl of soup. Or whatever happens to be special for the night. After your last bite is eaten, the waiter comes to your table with a giant tray full of slices of cake, pie, array of cookies and pastries. Suddenly, change feels good. Tastes good. Looks good.
Like a mailbox. Like a move. Like life.
JOIN US ON THURSDAY, THE FINAL DAY OF APRIL (UNTIL NEXT YEAR) FOR THE east coast open mic @ FOLSOM STREET COFFEE CO. @8pm WHERE WE WILL FEATURE MFA CANDIDATES FROM CU-BOULDER READING POETRY AND PROSE. THE OPEN MIC WILL FOLLOW.
Aimee
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