The sad mailbox of my extreme youth, what did it ever deliver? The only...

Pick up your socks. Clean the house once in a while. Go to the dentist. ...

Piles and piles of books, boxes of documents, photographs, bones, shreds of clothes...

I was just enough bigger that I could wrestle you into the clean straw of the mow...

I spread my smooth water like a lap and caught the trees' faces where they fell...

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?


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