Pre-quarantine, my husband would come home from work and check the mail. Entering through the garage door, he’d set his things down, and without pause ask, “Did you get the mail yet?” When my response was (always, predictably) “No.” He’d grab the mail key and walk the ten feet from the front door to the mailbox, flip open the lid, and unlock the compartment to reveal the day’s treasures. Some days he’d return with a stack of colorful flyers and bills to place on the counter, and other days he’d come back empty handed. I never understood his obsession with the mail.
When my husband traveled, sometimes for a week or so at a time, I’d forget about that metal mailbox out front. I knew what waited for me- coupons and the latest ads from the grocery store (a huge waste of paper, in my opinion). I wouldn’t use them and they would eventually go into the recycling bin anyway. I knew there would be bills to mark for payment and tack up on the bulletin board, maybe a National Geographic for the kids. But really, nothing of urgency that couldn’t wait patiently in the mailbox for my husband to grab when he came home from work in a few days. Or a week. Apologies to the mail delivery person for crowding up the box. I do appreciate you. I just don’t appreciate all the junk.
Photo by Mikaela Wiedenhoff on Unsplash
But that was then. This is now.
Today I’ve checked the clock a few times already, wondering if the mail has arrived. Our mail delivery is usually around ten am. Once the clock hits 10:03 (those three extra minutes make me feel like I’m exercising patience), I grab the mail key off the hook, trot out to the mailbox, and unlock the inside compartment. Reaching in with greedy hands I stand outside and rifle through the loot. Striking gold, I place an envelope on top of my pile and head inside.
“Mommy has mail!” I announce to the kids, waving an envelope. They glance up at me, annoyed I interrupted their game, and continue to play Legos on the floor. I step around towers, trip over a stray block, and plop the extra mail on the counter.
Setting my mug of (already cold) coffee on the table, I sweep aside breakfast crumbs and slowly peel open the envelope. The amount of words on the page inside makes me giddy. Someone took a lot of time and effort to specifically write to me. With actual handwriting. Then addressed the envelope and put it in their own mailbox, where it magically ends up in mine. How cool is that?
I take my time to read the letter quickly, then again to make sure I took it all in. A treasure, these words from another living person. I try to picture where she was sitting when she wrote them. Did her children interrupt her multiple times? Did she write it all at once, or in stages? I envision thoughts swirling around her head, then coming to land on the page I hold in my hand.
I’m interrupted by children wanting snacks. Then lunch. My letter sits, forlorn, awaiting a response. Finally the kids are ready to go outside and play. I grab a clipboard and some water, a few colorful pens that represent how fun I am. Maybe I’ll draw a fancy border on my reply. I’ve always wanted to make those fancy swirls. It’s nice to get pretty things in the mail. I grab a few of my daughter’s brush pens and search for a piece of paper.
The children jump on the trampoline and I settle into a cushioned chair in the shade. I draw a swirl in the corner of the page. It does not come out as I had hoped. I draw a few more, down and around the side. Perhaps if I try a different color. But alas, I have created a border for my page that looks like it was drawn by my four-year-old. Maybe my friend will assume I had some extra help with my letter. Let’s go with that.
Someone starts to cry and I look up to see an unhappy face. I set down my clipboard and pens and mediate the situation. Then everyone is hungry again, so I go inside and heat up a bag of popcorn, distribute bowls and fruit and waters.
“Can we use the hose on the trampoline?” the children ask. “Sure,” I say. They run to change into swimsuits.
“Don’t forget towels!” I yell.
I gather used bowls and sweep up spilled popcorn kernels and orange peels. The children come barreling out and turn the water on. Once jumping has resumed I choose a color to begin my letter writing. I barely scrape out “Dear” when the pen runs out of ink. I run inside to grab another color. Again, no ink. I make a note to get my daughter new colorful pens. After my third try, the pen works. I trace back over the first few faded words I tried to write, hoping my friend glosses over this sloppiness.
Again, someone starts crying and I mediate. The children are done playing with the hose and go inside to change. I put my supplies back on the patio table and gather scattered towels.
Sitting back down in my patio chair I pick up my working pen and let the words flow. I answer all her questions and write back more of my own. I write about what we are doing at home, the audiobooks we are reading, what I am reading. (My daughter tries to read over my shoulder and I hold the words close to me, tell her to go play. This is just for Mommy.) I ask about her house and her family. I turn my page over and keep writing.
The children come back outside. They are hungry again, but this time it is a battle. Dinner will be done soon (after I get up to make it) and no, they cannot eat chips because then they won’t eat any of the dinner I am about to go make. More whining and threats of being sent to their rooms ensue, until I win the dinner battle (this time. Some days I just let them eat all the chips).
I finish my letter with a flourish, signing my name in cursive, and bring my supplies inside, setting them on the kitchen counter. I make dinner, moving my letter out of the way to avoid grease stains and hoping I didn’t just place it onto something sticky.
Once dinner is cooking, I address the envelope and rush it outside, putting up the little red flag on the mailbox. I like to think the little red flag waves happiness and productivity. “Look, I wrote a letter today! Come and get my mail and spread some cheer!”
My husband comes downstairs from working in his makeshift home office. “Did you get the mail?” he asks.
“Yup,” I answer. “It’s on the counter. I got a letter from a pen pal today!” I beam.
In the time of quarantine and not seeing people face to face, it’s words from a friend that really brighten my day. I might not be able to have conversations in person right now, but the words of encouragement that come in my mailbox mean I can still relate to someone else. That I’m not isolated and alone. That even though we are apart, we are still together.
