Driving home from work today, I see a man; perhaps he was not yet elderly, but the hobble in his gait shows me that he's seen some time pass him by. He is thick in the stomach, thin in the arms, and has slight bits of brown peering out from the thin layers of white hair on his head, atop which are perched reading glasses, unused but waiting.
He is just coming to the end of his driveway, arms fully outstretched to the plain white and rusty box atop brown and crooked post wherein he expects to find laying his mail for the day. He does not take the extra painful step to stand fully in front of the treasure chest, but leans dangerously from the side, flipping the door open and giving inside a longing glance. From the caving of his shoulders, the hang of his head, and the heave of an exhale, I know there is no mail for him. He inches closed the small door and pushes his hand down onto the mailbox for stability as he turns to head back to his house.
As the road curves and I leave him behind me, I spare him a quick glance in the rear view mirror to see the effort he puts into his steps; surely he cannot not make the excursion to his mailbox but once daily, for he seems to ache with every movement. He has been looking forward to receipt of something, anything, with great expectation, and was disappointed, just as every other day. Our lives juxtaposed, the phone in my pocket buzzes and the sound of another piece of junk email arrives to my inbox, the ease of only a fingertip's flick away and screaming for my attention. The accessibility of trash is unnerving, and my shoulders cave and my head hangs as I exhale, knowing my inbox is overflowing with things I don't want to read. The old man would be ecstatic to find a single piece of crinkled paper in his mailbox.
He is just coming to the end of his driveway, arms fully outstretched to the plain white and rusty box atop brown and crooked post wherein he expects to find laying his mail for the day. He does not take the extra painful step to stand fully in front of the treasure chest, but leans dangerously from the side, flipping the door open and giving inside a longing glance. From the caving of his shoulders, the hang of his head, and the heave of an exhale, I know there is no mail for him. He inches closed the small door and pushes his hand down onto the mailbox for stability as he turns to head back to his house.
As the road curves and I leave him behind me, I spare him a quick glance in the rear view mirror to see the effort he puts into his steps; surely he cannot not make the excursion to his mailbox but once daily, for he seems to ache with every movement. He has been looking forward to receipt of something, anything, with great expectation, and was disappointed, just as every other day. Our lives juxtaposed, the phone in my pocket buzzes and the sound of another piece of junk email arrives to my inbox, the ease of only a fingertip's flick away and screaming for my attention. The accessibility of trash is unnerving, and my shoulders cave and my head hangs as I exhale, knowing my inbox is overflowing with things I don't want to read. The old man would be ecstatic to find a single piece of crinkled paper in his mailbox.
