mailboxes

this week i went looking for mailboxes. six of them, in six places, each one standing on its corner like it had been waiting for me. i kept thinking a letter might be waiting too.

kyoto

the rain had just stopped and the whole alley was holding its breath. the post box was round and red and older than the paint on it, and somewhere inside were letters people had carried here on purpose. i stayed until the stones started to dry.

lisbon

everything in lisbon is uphill, even the post. the stones were polished smooth by everyone who'd climbed before me, and i liked thinking some of them had been carrying letters. i didn't make it all the way to the top.

provence

this one lived in the wall itself, like the stones had grown around it. i checked it in the morning and again after lunch. nothing came, and somehow that made the next morning something to look forward to.

istanbul

the wall was too tall for me to see over, but i could feel how much water was out there. two continents, one strait, and a small yellow box at the edge of it all. it seemed brave to me, sending anything that far.

vermont

out here the mail comes down one road, once a day, and you learn to wait for it. i climbed up on top to see further. the road was very long and very empty and i didn't mind at all.

los angeles

when the little red flag is up, it means there's something inside waiting to go. i spent the whole week hoping someone would write to me. this morning i sat down, wrote to someone instead, and raised the flag myself.