“If, somewhere, any possible world can exist, then somewhere there is any letter that could possibly be written. Somewhere, all those checks really were in the mail.” Terry Pratchett
I spy that little white truck rolling by. It halts in front of every house in our cul-de-sac each day, and as soon as it’s gone, I scurry out there. There’s a mini sense of suspense built into my daily life by what could be left behind. Mail delights me.
My family thinks it’s weird. Unlike me, they don’t believe there could be anything in that box and likely, money. But I have that kind of faith.
“Is there a check in the mail today?” I ask Husband who signed up for the preview through Informed Delivery notifications. I could sign up for it too, but it’s more fun to ask him every twenty-four hours, minus Sundays.
“No, but you’ve been selected to represent concerned citizens of Minneapolis in front of the U.S. Senate,” he said one day.
I’d rather have his usual “Probably.”
Last week, our mortgage company sent an escrow overage refund, AND a rebate arrived from Menards (for store credit), keeping my expectations of funds in the mailbox ripping around the yard like a puppy just released from his kennel. A letter also came from the National Cremation Society.
Husband read it aloud. “‘How long do you plan on living?’”
“It does not say that.” But I stole a peek at the paper anyway.
He laughed. “Actually, ‘How long have you lived at your current residence?’”
I suppose there’s nothing like the thought of death to ground us, though, while we’re going through the mail.
One day a few weeks ago, I clicked off half my brain to sift through the USPS’s offerings. From the looks of it, there was no cause for elation. I slid my finger under the edge of one piece, opening it. The U.S. Census Bureau. It contained a questionnaire of several pages. Who fills this out? Surely there’s a way for the U.S. government to count its citizens without relying on them to get out a pen and tell the truth on paper about who lives in their house. But wait. A five-dollar bill was also tucked inside. Since when? Did they send every American household five bucks as an incentive to complete the form?
The papers went straight into the recycling, and Abe Lincoln made a beeline for Husband’s wallet. I texted a friend. She had gotten the same letter but no money, and no, she had never heard of such a thing.
Oh, dear mail! You sure offer a burst of anticipation every day anywhere from noon to three o’clock. (Or sometimes it’s later, like that one day when I didn’t see you until the next morning because you had been delivered so late the previous day, but no matter.) Thank you for the daily fun.
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