My first memories of my mailbox occur in summer’s decline, mere weeks before the first week of school. The air was always so sweet and warm, foreshadowing the coming weeks—azure skies, lofty zephyrs, and back-to-school pool parties where at least one popsicle pool float would rupture.
During my treasured elementary school years, I would run up and down the lengths of my street, waiting restlessly for a sealed envelope to be dropped in the mailbox at the end of the street. Once the word got around that the mailman on the day was maneuvering through the neighborhood, all of the expectant kids in the bordering houses would bounce impatiently in their lawns, waiting for the chugging sound of the mail truck to dart up the hill to deliver the long-anticipated news.
The envelope contents were always torn open right there on the cement; I barely waited until the mailman peeled off to the next house to open mine to find out who my teacher would be for the following year. My sister and I would exchange letters, read who each other would have as a teacher for the school year, and marvel at all of the fancy school supplies that we would need.
I disregarded anything that came in the mail from this point forward. It’s a strange, mundane object to give thought to, and because of the nondescript qualities or significance that the mailbox seemed to possess, it slipped my mind.
Then I would bolt back inside, tossing the nameless magazines and tax envelopes on the counter in a haphazard clump before begging my mom to contact my friends to ask if the mailman dropped their teachers’ letter off yet.
That was my mailbox. The bearer of good news, the capsule of teacher letters on the best summer days. At this point, it was that and nothing more.
The second recollected memory I have of my mailbox is equally as cherished as the first; every year once the first snowflake graced the sky, our mailbox would be stuffed with Christmas cards from all of our family and friends.
Glowing smiles, festive fonts, and heartfelt well-wishes—I soon began to look forward to the moment when we would tape these cards to the basement door, a small reminder of all the love tucked in every corner of the country.
Christmas cards became intermingled with crisp envelopes of taxes, clothing ads, random packages of new clothes, and the occasional business letter for my dad. I stopped racing to the mailbox to collect mail—the gray post at the end of the driveway slowly failed to bear exciting contents.
Every once in a while, someone in my family would drag in something interesting after the mail was delivered, piquing my interest after months of forgetting that the mailbox even existed: a vibrant birthday note laced with cash, “get well soon” cards after an important surgery, and the annual holiday edition of the catalog we always order around Christmas was a few simple items that were occasionally deposited in the mailbox.
After my grandpa passed away, the mailbox suddenly contained a plethora of purple orchids and pretty cards of condolences. I still didn’t run to the mailbox during these darkened days, regardless of the flowery bouquets or care packages that were nestled within. Every delivery was a blunt reminder of not what I was gaining but what had been lost, and every flower petal that wilted with time was a belligerent reminder of just that.
I disregarded anything that came in the mail from this point forward. It’s a strange, mundane object to give thought to, and because of the nondescript qualities or significance that the mailbox seemed to possess, it slipped my mind.
It wasn’t until one unremarkable November morning a few weeks ago that I gave notice to the dull, gray box at the end of my driveway. The air was rippled with watery sunlight, the bright rays emanating a false sense of warmth only to step outside to a bitter punch of chilled wind. My dad happened to be walking out to my car with me as I left for work, planning on snatching the mail on his way back inside.
My car was in reverse. My back wheels were halfway out of the driveway when my dad started banging on my window, waving a hefty package of something that looked suspiciously like college mail in his hand.
I rolled down my window, and together we opened the package that would forever change my life: a college acceptance letter to my dream college, High Point University, after dedicating every spare thought I had to stressing, analyzing, and hopelessly predicting the chances I had of getting accepted into the school.
I’m going to college, I guess.
It didn’t happen the way I thought it would. It wasn’t a cloudless summer day with lemonade stands and popsicles, and I certainly wasn’t chasing the mailman down the block like I used to as a kid.
I’m going to college, I guess.
