Mail Call


Our mail delivery person can always tell when I'm feeling unwell or anti-social, because when I'm in my darkest moods, I curl up with dogs and books and tea, and ignore the existance of pretty much everything and everyone, except Fuzzy. Those of you who know me know how dire this is, because I love snailmail almost as much as I love coffee, or chocolate.

There's something amazing about a written letter, especially in our instant-gratification age of IM and Email and text messaging to cell phones. On one hand, I think most of us are too accessable, on the other, I like the immediacy, but…I'd still prefer a single written page to an entire hard drive of email.

When the weather is cool, and the light is just right, I like to sit out on the porch, and write to people. I especially like blank greeting cards, with quotations or fun images, but really, any stationery will do. I sip tea, and write more slowly than I do when I'm at the keyboard, more deliberately, and I try to make it seem as if I'm capturing not just the essence of a moment, as I do here, in this blog, but the moment entire.

When I walk the dogs, I can always tell which houses are empty, because there's mail stacked up, or newspapers, but sometimes I see movement, and wonder if, perhaps, there's another person who simply has a black mood going on.

I don't pick up the mail.
I don't pick up the phone.
I don't answer the door.
I'd just soon be alone.
I don't keep this place up.
I just keep the lights down.
I don't live in these rooms.
I just rattle around.*

*”Ghost In This House,” Alison Kraus

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