From an in-class writing prompt: “Write about mailboxes,” in AP Lang, which spawned the poem “Mailboxes,” by C.W., whose first and last lines were “Mailboxes. / They’re for mail.”
Mailboxes are a way to tie a thin string between me and the outside world. Dropping a letter in the rusty one on Waterman or the nicer, bluer one on Elmgrove is a way and a reason to leave my house. Last time I walked out, letters and bills in hand, someone had left a stuffed unicorn, with pink stripes and a bow on its horn, right atop the mailbox. I was hoping some wee child would come along to claim it with a cry of glee; in truth I was hoping she’d be so small that she’d need to be lifted up to reach the top of this squat blue box that towered over her. She never came; I walke on.
But it had me thinking about how mailboxes are safe places in our neighborhoods. They’re places where I can leave a wedding RSVP, knowing it will make it to Indiana. Or a postcard saying, “I miss you,” or a thank you note to my Aunt Laura for sending me my mother’s 1986 Princess Diana wedding dress, which had appeared on my porch, right under my own mailbox 2 days before. They’re repositories of words.