Wood. Wood, nails. Wood, nails, paint. Hammer. Hammer here. Nail there. Paint this. Paint that side. Drive, drive, drive the post into the ground. Nail here Hammer there. Paint, nail, paint.

Open the latch.

A mailbox, empty at first, holds the greatest possibilities. A mailbox is an endless cavern of mysteries, open to any idea or word written on paper. Envelopes, paper, ink. A mailbox is our link to love, our link to lust, our link to hate, our link to greed, our link to salvation.

The letter arrives; internal celebration resonates. Throw open the latch; reach into the darkness, retrieve the envelope, retrieve the letter, the pure, pristine, perfect white envelope gleaming and sparkling in the sunlight with an address, my address, scrawled on the front, but no return address. Sift through the irrelevant bills and notices, advertisements, magazines, until all that’s left is the envelope, your envelope, the chosen envelope, the envelope sent longingly from your admirer.
Clumsy cursive defines the author, creates an image. Rip the flap, tear it open. Pull out the letter, notice the short phrase penned on the outer flap of the page. The paper, smooth and cool, rough and warm, opens and unleashes a new world of wonder and whimsy unforeseen by anyone besides yourself and the enlightened, hopeful author.
“Dearest;” why dearest? Why me? How can I be dearest to anyone? Continue reading as you notice the careful prose chosen specifically for you. Each word has been invented as it was penned, as if vocabulary and language itself had not been established before this very writer’s words. The care, the thought, the hope, the passion pours from each word and longing desire is nearly tangible with each sentence. Immerse, surround, create, invent until the page is full. That is his intent. Until there is no room left. Until the pen has been stripped of ink. Until the signature, “your humble admirer.”
He ends with hope, for all things should end with hope.