Dear Eric, The sad mailbox of my extreme youth, what did it ever deliver? The only news was from far away, not from here, where news was really needed. It was big, hollow, thoroughly metal. The shape always reminded me a little of a house, and who would want to live there? Rooted in a hunk of concrete below ground, it was going nowhere. I thought that was a mistake: it should have been free to roam out and come back with what we wanted--that was what could have helped, the something-or-other from somewhere else. There, I've contradicted myself. The mailbox sat under a huge maple tree--huddled itself, I should say. A limb with a spread of leaves reached over its head like a blessing and assurance. High in the branches, very still, I waited and waited. What did I expect would arrive, and why did I want to surprise it? I don't know, even now, I really don't. Could you tell me? Occupant
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