February 13, 2023
Greetings from special delivery,
1810. 1812. 1814. 1816.
The mailbox was mounted on the front of the yellow house, and so he had to unlatch the chain link gate to bring the mail to 1818 Penwoods. In the wintertime, two children would be in the small yard making snowmen between the frosted birdbath and garden gnomes. In the summer there were flowers planted in narrow beds around the foundation. In the living room window, he could see her sitting in her chair, sometimes reading, sometimes just watching.
1820. 1822. 1824. Trevor had always been a mail carrier, at least that was how it seemed to him. He had worked other jobs when he was young, but even then he was always curious, drawn to the idea of bringing letters to people; it seemed important and worthwhile. As soon as he was hired at the post office, he felt as though he’d found a calling.
He delivered mail and packages on a city route, which is what he preferred. He liked the straight lines and the orderly numbers. He enjoyed being able to walk the entire route, to be outside, no matter the season, watching the world. He began noticing things along the way, stopping to pick up acorns, or interesting stones, and sometimes coins. He carried his treasure in a little pouch clipped to his mailbag.
He met some of the people on his route, but almost always knew them better through the mail he brought them. This jury summons, this small anonymous package, this letter from prison, this overdue notice from the library. Some had a flurry of holiday cards, others had none. There were a few who received only ‘Current Resident’ envelopes. Some of these were lonely, dark houses. 1691. 1693. 1695.
At 1818 the mail came to Mrs. Claire Ostrand. If there was ever a Mr. Ostrand, Trevor didn’t know, but he didn’t get mail at 1818. He delivered colorful envelopes in May and September for the children, Ethan and Olivia, clearly birthday cards. Mrs. Ostrand subscribed to two magazines for a while, One Pan Recipes and Garden Gate, but after a while those stopped. Now the only thing he delivered to her, Claire, was the utility bill, and the litter of advertisements describing going out of business sales or political candidates’ promises.
One winter morning the boy, Ethan, was in the yard, obviously waiting for him. He came to the chain link gate, holding a cup of hot chocolate in an insulated cup. “It’s for you,” he said, proudly. Trevor accepted, bowing at the waist in gratitude. When he straightened he saw her watching from the window, and she gave a small wave, and smiled.
The next day, he put a Thank You acorn in the mailbox on top of the flyer from TJ Maxx.
He watched the people through the windows, and in their yards, saw them transform, the children grow longer shadows, the parents age, the puppies who chased him along their yards become grizzled fixtures on the porch, too comfortable to lift their heads in the sun. 1426. 1428. 1430.
The years blurred by and sometimes Trevor felt like he was standing still while the houses flew past him like a long train. He could see the people in the lighted windows, reading or cooking or dancing to music he couldn’t hear, flashing by him as he stood rooted on the sidewalk outside. He had always felt content to be part of these lives, even from where he walked his route, but now he felt something he hadn’t learned about from the USPS manual.
One spring day, he opened the gate to 1818 and notice the top letter was registered mail, requiring the recipient’s signature. He paused and looked at the return address, a legal firm with several names. He knocked on the door and stood back waiting. Almost immediately she opened the door, already wearing her jacket, as if he had knocked at the exact moment she was leaving.
“Good morning,” he said. “I have a registered letter for… Claire Ostrand,” he looked at the letter as he said it, as if he didn’t already know her name by heart.
He had never seen her this close, except through the window of the living room. He hadn’t dared to guess what color her eyes were, and now that he saw them, he felt like he already knew. She smiled at him, now one of his favorite things, and said, “I’m Claire.” And he added her voice to his collection of favorites.
“And you must be Kelly,” she said, pointing to his name badge.
Trevor blushed, wishing he could just say she was right. “No, that’s actually my last name. First name is Trevor.”
“Pleasure to know you, finally. Trevor,” she said, and her smile broadened.
She signed the slip and he detached it from the envelope and handed it back, and for just a moment, which might have been one bazillion days, their hands touched. He watched her for that second or two, and she didn’t turn away. And then the time shifted and she went back into the house.
In the days following, she did not bring her mail in from the mailbox. After the third day, Trevor struggled to get any more envelopes in. He stood at the mailbox, wondering what had happened, and wished to be someone in her life that was allowed to ask. He finally reached into his mailbag and unfolded form USPS/HMR7231, Hold Mail Request. He slipped it into the mailbox, and then from his little pouch, placed an old skeleton key he had found the week before.
For a while the blinds in the front windows were closed, and the children were not in the yard when he went by. And then one day he opened the mailbox and there was a simple note. “Grateful for your kindness.”
Trevor walked his route, changed his uniform with the seasons which blended the years together until he lost count of the time he had travelled through. His heart lifted each day when he approached 1818, and he kept the mail neatly set aside for when he would come to the little yellow house on Penwoods. When he had something interesting or beautiful in his collection, he would leave it on top of the mail. This bottle cap. This bit of a nest. A cicada’s shell.
Then it was mail for Ethan, and a year later for Olivia, from colleges in faraway towns. And then he didn’t see them in the yard any longer. Trevor noted that she began getting mail from AARP. More time passed and there were cards from the children on Mother’s Day, Ethan’s always a little late. Trevor placed them with care in the mailbox and shared a rust-colored stone on top.
Some days he opened the mailbox at 1818 and there was something waiting. On the holidays there was a note, or sometimes a wrapped chocolate chip cookie, which he always intended to freeze and keep forever, but always, always ate before he walked a block. Chocolate chip was his favorite.
In February his mailbag bulged with pink envelopes with heart-shaped stickers, a few small boxes of what he knew must be chocolate. (There were no regulations against smelling the packages.) And then when he came to 1818, she was sitting on the front steps, as if she were waiting for him. Which, beyond his wildest dreams, she was.
She stood as he opened the chain link gate and said hello, and then handed him a folded paper. He opened it. USPS COA Request/3575. Change of Address form. He felt his stomach sink. He looked up at her, lost for words, and then sadly found them.
“You can do this online, you know,” he said, his voice breaking a little. “It might be quicker. You don’t have to give it to me.”
She smiled, just slightly, a shy movement. “I know.” She shrugged the oversized sweater. “I wanted to give it to you. Personally.”
“Well,” he swallowed, not wanting to look away, but finally glancing down at the form. 1122 Lincoln Park, in Elgin, a small town nearly a hundred miles away. He looked up at her.
“Trevor,” she said, holding his eyes, “I want to be sure I get my mail where I am going. I don’t want to miss anything. Do you think, … is it possible?”
Trevor didn’t know anything about Elgin, whether the streets were straight or how the houses were numbered, or if they had need of a mail carrier. He did know form USPS RFT/2231 Request For Transfer for Mail Carriers.
“Yes, Claire, it is possible.”
1116. 1118. 1120. 1122.
Hope this finds you on the right street,
David
Copyright © 2023 David Smith
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