A mailman delivers mail to a home — a mailman by name only. A REAL mailman is one who receives the mail. No… one who waits for the mail. No… one who eagerly leaps for the mail as it drops into the box. That’s a mailman. I lived with a real one.

Our box was situated two steps from the front door, or one giant step by a real mailman. Bonus! And. And and and a kitchen window showcased a panoramic view of the walkway enabling a real mailman to track the mail on its way to the box. It gets better. A mail truck parked in front of our house, which meant our mail was delivered first! Is that the ultimate? Christmas everyday except Sundays. We suffered through holidays.

A real mailman is serious about his daily mail-retrieving task. He knows the time of delivery, the fake mailman’s name of course, his wife and children’s names of course, his vacation weeks, and why he might have been an hour late on Monday. He also knows what will be in the stack of mail, because he requested notification through USPS. A real mailman utilizes this service upon waking.

The best part about living with a real mailman, besides constant amusement, is that I forgot about mail. No need to remember; the mailman would get it, sort it, read it, toss it. It was in good hands. Such a luxury.

When my mailman became sick I became his assistant. He would kindly tell me everyday at 2:00 that the mail had come. Which meant get the mail as soon as you possibly can please. Or sooner.

Now I’m the mailman, but I’m not a real one. Which is why mail stacks up in the box. Not because I don’t appreciate letters and cards and bills and all the junk mail. I do I do. I just flat don’t remember. When my neighbor offers to get my mail, I’m ashamed of my brazen deficiency. (I think she’s a real mailman.) I’ll never be the real deal. A seemingly small responsibility is actually a big one. I know that now. For the first time, I am grateful for my real mailman who loved mail and loved me. Thank you, Mailman.