The Mailbox

He remembers when his many bolts weren't ringed in rust, and his seams weren't blackened with years of grime and dust. The post upon which he sat was gray and weathered now, and had become just slightly west of plumb somehow. The screw that held his little flag had long ago come loose, chipped and faded, no longer red, it was of little use. The driveway that he guarded was dirt and deeply sloped, and halfway down it gently curved around a massive oak. Now some might think that he'd be bored, stuck there night and day, but he found entertainment in the things that came his way. He pondered long and hard on things before making up his mind, there was no hurry, he reasoned, when all you have is time. He carefully watched a nest of ants both day and night for weeks, before he reached the conclusion that ants must never sleep. He marveled at the seasons and loved both sun and snow, but sometimes he felt beaten down when the wind-whipped rain would blow. He loved the feel of bird feet when they used him as a perch, and when a truck would rumble by he'd feel his spirit lurch. He delighted in the field mice, and wept with the mourning doves, was suspicious of the furry raccoons, with their masks and leather gloves. Though days and months and years went by, and he was oft ignored, his life of perfect stillness was itself a rich reward. So as we hurtle past him, with our tires spitting rocks, perhaps we could learn something from our stoic old mailbox.