The mailbox sits under the sun, pondering. It is rusted; being out of use does not suit it well. It has sat on top of its pole ever since it can remember. It has been opened before. By hands that are trembling with excitement. By hands that are rushing. By hands that are anxious.
But now, only the wind opens it. And dogs from the neighborhood; they sniff in it looking for food. For days, its hinges are loose, making the opening flap noisily until someone from the house gets irritated enough to shut it.
Why, though? Where have all the letters gone? It keeps on hearing words like 'mail', 'sent', and 'letters'. But there is nothing in it. There's no one who delivers enveloped sheets anymore. There's no one to run to it, eager.
It can only sigh. Surely, the people living in that house has found something else to receive their letters from.
It can only cry. Maybe to be broken down is better. Maybe as a simple sheet of rusted metal, it can be of better use.
It misses its friends.
Photo by: Cindy Seigle
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