Marjorie's Mailbox

Marjorie stood at the front window and looked forlornly outside at her mailbox. The bright paint had faded with years of exposure to the elements, but the box remained strong and dutiful despite its worn appearance. She still felt a twinge of excitement on her daily trek to retrieve the contents, even as her steps became less jaunty and more of a shuffle.

Oh, the things that mailbox had held over the years: birthday and holiday cards, mail-order catalogs, ladies’ magazines, reading material from her book of the month club, postcards from vacationing friends. Letters from family members were the best surprises, as far as Marjorie was concerned. Sometimes they held a treasured photographic update of how everyone had changed. Other times she received a letter that included a page written in a child’s scrawl.

Dear Gram, How are you? I am fine. I got a pretty new dress for school and a book about a girl who lived in the old days before cars were made. I hope I can come visit you sometime. I love you. From Janet.

Marjorie’s file cabinet had once been stuffed with such letters, but they were all packed away in a box now, as were the rest of her worldly belongings. She didn’t want to move to the retirement community, but she had no other options. The house was too difficult for her to maintain on her own and her finances were dwindling. The small apartment would be far more practical and less expensive. She kept telling herself that it doesn’t matter where you are; it’s who you are that counts. But she remained doubtful.

Not all of her mailbox bounty had been pleasant. In 1952 her mailbox overflowed with sympathy cards when her husband Walter died in the Korean War. It happened again in 1967 when her son Dennis was killed in Vietnam, just three days short of his 20^th birthday. She realized that the condolences were meant to be comforting, but nothing could erase the emotional pain those wars had endowed upon her.

Marjorie turned from the window and looked around at the boxes. The movers would be arriving soon. The other elements that made her house a home, the photos, the décor, the souvenirs and mementos, would be going with her to the apartment. But the mailbox that she had hand-painted to match her personality would have to stay behind. It would have sounded crazy to say it out loud, but Marjorie was going to miss that mailbox.

For the next three months Marjorie trudged to the cluster of lock boxes, key in hand, to retrieve her mail. Most of it was formal and impersonal: insurance documents, bank account and investment statements, utility bills. Mail-order catalogs had long been rendered archaic by online shopping. Ladies’ magazines, with their articles about make-up, fashion and sex, held no relevance in the life of an 83-year-old woman. Many of her friends had already passed on from this life, but those who were left and could still travel preferred to visit their families rather than the picturesque locales depicted on postcards from the past. Even her family members had ceased writing letters and instead resorted to phone calls to communicate with Marjorie, who had no use for computers and email.

It seemed fitting to her that the items contained within lock box number 215 were formal and impersonal, to match the receptacle in which they were distributed. All the mailboxes looked the same there; flat, gray boxes with flat, gray mail. The logic didn’t temper the disappointment she felt at having to leave the home and life she had known for so long, but it did help her cope with the unfamiliar surroundings that were devoid of any meaningful memories.

One day in early spring, Marjorie heard a knock on her apartment door. It had been years since she had an unannounced visitor drop by so she expected it was the leasing manager on official business, or perhaps a church group with intentions to proselytize. As she opened the door she was surprised to see a young postal worker holding a hefty parcel.

“Marjorie Carrigan?” he asked with a smile.

“Yes,” she replied. “What’s this?”

“It was too big to fit in your mail box, ma’am. It isn’t very heavy but it’s kind of bulky, so I’ll bring it in for you. Where would you like it?”

Marjorie led him to the small multi-purpose table next to the kitchen window where she enjoyed a sunrise breakfast every morning and paid bills twice a month. He placed the box in the middle of the table, bid her a good afternoon and showed himself to the door.

The return address indicated that the package was from her great-granddaughter Haley. Marjorie retrieved a pair of scissors from her utility drawer and cautiously sliced down the crease in the center of the box. On top of the foam peanuts was an envelope with “Mema” written on the front in Haley’s artsy pre-teen script. She set the envelope aside and began scooping the packing materials into the trash can.

“Ohhhh,” Marjorie whispered as she uncovered enough of the gift to identify it. She carefully pulled it from the plastic bag, brushed a few remaining foam pieces into the trash, and looked at the beautiful replica of her mailbox. The nameplate on the top read “Carrigan” in swirly letters. Her eyes grew misty as she ran her fingers lightly over the birds and flowers that Haley had meticulously hand-painted on the sides. For the first time in months, Marjorie felt a genuine smile broaden across her face.

Marjorie set the mailbox aside for a moment, opened the flap of the envelope and pulled out a letter. As she unfolded the paper, a photograph fell to the table top. She had never seen this picture before and she surmised that it must have been taken by her daughter Laura sometime around 1980. Janet looked to be about five in the photo. She was wearing a green sundress and no shoes as she stood on the tips of her toes and stretched her arm as far as she could to reach the mail in Marjorie’s mailbox. The Marjorie in the photograph smiled down at her young granddaughter. Several moments lapsed before she could pull her eyes away from the past and read the letter she held in her hand.

Hi Mema! How are you? I hope you like your new house. I am going to come visit you this summer but I couldn’t wait to send you this. I tried to make it just like it was in this picture of you and Mom. I hope you like it. I love you! Haley

Marjorie left the kitchen and returned a few minutes later with her arms full of letters and postcards from her file cabinet. As she sorted through the pile and placed her favorite memories inside the mailbox, she began to feel the familiar lightness of her optimism returning. “It doesn’t matter where you are; it’s who you are that counts,” she told herself with conviction.

“It’s perfect, Haley,” Marjorie said out loud as she placed the mailbox in the windowsill where she could see it in the sunrise every morning. “Thank you.”