Delivering mail takes more patience and attention than most believe. At least that is what I'm thinking while slamming the steel box against the walls of the apartment building on North 13th. It's not mindless work. Every day I am confronted by the questions of man and the decisions of his work. I open and close the world. I bring the numbers and data of you to your home. I make and deliver you.



I slam the metal across the hinges and it breaks, spraying information across the stairs next to apartment number four. It's not his mail, however. It is not him, and something must be done.

I can't fix the group mailbox and so I exit through the back door and reenter my vehicle of information, heading back towards 6th Street. My usual route. It's how I met her. I was walking towards her box on the far side of her house, was hit by her sprinkler and instantly words were necessary.

She said that I still looked professional despite being all wet and I replied that, sure enough, I am a postman with a badge and a seal, a professional of life and the makings of the self.

Her picture sits in my information zone in my truck, in the gap between the glass and the measuring pieces and clockwork. We're both there. I'm behind her shoulder while her honey-colored locks hang down partially covering me. Her eyes are glacial: that's the best part.

For eleven months I've kept the same route, making her house the last stop on my daily drive. Depending on how long it takes me overall, I can have up to ninety minutes with her while still on the clock. Sometimes we play in the sprinklers like children. Sometimes we make cookies.

I'm late today, because of the hinges. It's past my time to be back to drop off my truck, and I am wondering if she is upset that I missed my appointment with her. I decide to drive by to say hello. It'll be fine if I have a bit of overtime. Just not too much.

I'm doing the math in my head of the overtime when I realize my usual path is being reconstructed. DETOUR. Davis Avenue is being remodeled. That'll add five more minutes. It's fine, though. Just a detour. I'll get through it as always.



Six o'clock is late for returning the truck, and it's six-fifteen. It's going to have to be quick. It takes thirty more minutes after returning to organize and prepare everything. I'll be home late today.

I park at the end of the street, two houses down where her house is. Habit, I guess. Luckily there isn't any mail for the other houses on the street. Walking quickly, I stop when I notice people in her house.

I've been cutting through her lawn in the same fashion for months now, and since it's summer there is a path outlined for me. I leave halfway through it this time to take a different way to a different part of her house.

The window tells all like envelopes on the lights in the payroll room. We've never been on the couch that way, but she seems to like it there. I wonder what that means: if I should've experimented more. I'm a postman. Routine is important.

I'm professional.

Postmen aren't prepared for these unexpected happenings. I'm lost on the side of the house, and instinctively begin to make my way back to the truck to regroup.

"They didn't see me," I think, "I will just show up here as usual when I am done with work." Then, "No, I can check her mail. Love letters or other names on the numbers and data pages. I can have them in my hands tomorrow."

Things running through my head and the key halfway turned in the ignition, my mind races. It's six-forty-five. My hinges have broken completely and my self is lying in front of a strange door.

The tears are beginning when it all hits me, but with the recognition and realization in the parking lot at the post-office on 1st Street comes a chance to take off the uniform. There's a badge and a seal there. He's not a professional, the way he looked there in the living room; he isn't much of anything. I'm the one who takes the route everyday. I am the one continually bringing her who and what she is.

"This is just a detour," I think, "I'll get through it, as always."



Uniform hung and my own mail in hand, I step outside to my nighttime car. The wind is blowing with force and I look at my right hand, grasping tightly all that I've made of myself.