Undelivered
Ms. Roe’s mailbox is bluish-green – our winters chipped away color – baring spots of metal. It is rusted shut from violent gales, knifing sleet… and inactivity. Yet every Saturday at dawn, the hearty spinster trudges down the hillside, casts down her eyes then awaits the courier in silence, just outside our matronly circle. In Sheridan County, the mailboxes are clumped together on warped 2” by 4”s – and the posts shift in the earth – the letter boxes lean like bowed branches. Due to reckless snow-plows, some women paint their boxes splashy colors – our row consists of a grassy green one, pink, a shiny unpainted one, then turquoise (that’s Ms. Roe) and black (that’s me). Self-sacrifice has dimmed our eyes, but there’s strength in having no voice. The postman steps past her; Ms. Roe stands expressionless ‘til he drives away. She curtsies slightly then forges up the ridge, empty-handed once again. And the lines in our foreheads are rigid. You see, the women of