I have come to despise my mailbox.
I tried not to take it personal, but, I have been unsuccessful in that attempt. Mailbox, how I loathe you.
Some days, it gets pretty bad. I think about it while I exercise. I think about it when I’m at work. I call my fiancé, who gets home before I do, and ask “Did you check the mail today?” He tells me that if I don’t think about it all the time—or check it each hour of the day (Every. Single. Day).—that it’ll make my response come quicker. I should take his advice.
But each time I check: Nothing!
And so, I blame my mailbox for the horrid delay. My insignificant mailbox; the one with the tiny metal door and a number inscribed onto it; the one with many neighboring mailboxes beside it, above it, below it; the one that only opens when I slip the mini golden key into the slot, and turn.
Oh mailbox, why is that every time I look inside you, there is no envelope for me containing the news I so long to hear? What have I ever done to you?
41 days down and who knows how many to go. But who’s counting? Not me. If my mailbox could count, it probably would; and taunt me with the number like a playground bully: nah nah nah nah, naaaah naaah!
Patience is definitely a virtue.