my grandfather was a mailman. true story.

I have what is best described as an annual affair with my mail. We stopped visiting each other regularly three years ago. Now, we check in on each other, not too much so it’s always interesting. It never fails to disappoint. Thin, red packages raising up from all the shit I will have to tear in half to avoid having my identity stolen. The whole lover metaphor probably ended a sentence ago.

I don’t have a great excuse for why this is the way it is. If you know me, you probably could tell me. It probably has something to do with details or time.

I have sent exactly two letters in the last year. Two cards to two family members. And when I dropped them in the post box, I never expected for a moment to hear anything back. I even assumed they wouldn’t make it there. They held some tender matters of my heart. Writing them, I sent them on their way, wherever they land just does not matter. But I put them in a box here and somehow they end up there? That just seems nuts.

My willing mail ignorance has caused some issues.

My insurance got temporarily discontinued last year because I failed to verify that I didn’t have any other insurance. “We sent you a letter.” I discovered the error because in one of my hunt and peck sessions for a specific piece of something else, I found an unpaid bill for $700 for my daughter’s office visit.

I discovered a note from a former acquaintance that had been quietly slipped (not even mailed) onto my porch. She said she didn’t know if we still live here. Or if we wanted to be in touch. But she was interested in reconnecting. I found it four months after it landed. And then I re-lost it for another few months. I recently found it, and it’s sitting in my office near my phone. I’m working up the courage to write her and tell her what happened. Or maybe she’s better off.

I have almost thrown away tickets to Wrigley Field. Concerts. I have lapsed membership in various things. Seasonal discounts. Stuff.

I had occasion this evening to step onto the porch and search in the dark for something required. I mashed around the obvious garbage, looking for the tell-tale signs of legitimate business. And there were…all these other things in there. Notes about comings and goings over the past year. Pictures of children so much bigger even than the last time I saw them. Kind cards from family; fingerprints of time taken to send a note off on a journey, not expecting something in return, but still wanting to share something with us and with others.

We opened our mail this evening with our daughter and told her who all of it was from. And I think tomorrow, we will write our first letter together to someone.

I’m still not going to check it regularly, though.