(If you want to hear Lori read the story click) here

 

 

When I go to the post office, there is a mixture of anticipation and dread. 

 

The hope pops up about the possibility of a letter. These are, unfortunately, less common than they were twenty years ago.

 

I still remember a day before Christmas back in the early eighties when I played a game with my kids. I had hiked to the mailbox which was a block away and collected the contents. When I got home I pulled an envelope out of my pocket. Kids cheered. A Christmas card! Then I handed them another. More cheers. I produced three more, and they laughed while gathering them up. I kept pulling and their cries escalated until I rained down the whole pile of twenty five red and white envelopes from people we love. It was great fun to rip them open and look at the pictures.

 

But that is not all the mailman brings each day. There are also bills. Bills are neither friendly nor personal. I am an account number and an amount due. They want me to do something, as in fork over cash, and to do it now.

 

When John walks in the door, sometimes I greet him warmly. He enjoys this. I may be feeling especially altruistic and put my arms around him. I am uncomfortable noticing that this is less frequent than it was in the early eighties. Other times, though I have serious expectations. I want him to fix the computer, find the scrap of paper with crucial information on it, and calm down Benjamin. Now.

 

I wonder how he feels, walking in the door. Is he eager? Is he nervous about what kind of day I have had? 

 

It is coming up on Valentine's Day. Maybe the kids and I could rig up a bucket of construction paper hearts over the door, to rain on him when he walks in. That would be fun. I bet we will still be savoring the moment twenty years from now.