I don’t know them, the people with the US mailbox, but I nod in the direction of their house each day when I walk by — my acknowledgement traveling over the bush that lines the road, the iron gate, up the tree-lined gravel driveway, past the sleeping dog that can’t muster a bark in the heat, and the aloof cat (that won’t admit it is our gate she will be sleeping on later, just because she can), up the three stairs to the screen door, and on a long awaited breeze whispers, “Hello in there.” 

We barely even get mail anymore. I used to see the mail car pass when I was out walking. Now I never do. But the mailbox still connects us — the mailbox that stands hopeful for connection. Ready to give an open mouthed “Ohhhhh” when it does! And I suppose it’s not really the box at all, but the feeling. Perhaps we all know that desire to connect, to gather in, with words and hearts and gesture. Someone is always reaching out, saying, “Does anyone else feel this way?” And it doesn’t take much. We worry about doing the right thing, saying the right words, so we do nothing at all, when all it really takes is just an acknowledgment, a simple heart nod to say, “I’ve been on this road before, hello…”