The Postman

postmanI’m surprised to see the postman’s face at last. The wrinkles parenthesizing his lips and eyes are soft, instead of creased with fury as I had imagined. I expected an ogre, a baba yaga, because of the way his shadow always dropped my packages on the ground and kicked them – banging on the door violently before vanishing like a ghost. I stood by the window determined to “shoo” him. But now that I’ve caught him I realize that he is just a man. Mild. Meek. Holding my name on his tongue while the arm in his bag reaches for another.

Elisa Jay recently moved to LA from Chicago, where she was a full-time caregiver for her father. She received a degree in English Literature from UIC, and the move to the mountains and ocean has revived her great love of words. She now writes while drinking copious amounts of tea. Follow her explorations on Instagram @e_letters, and read more of her reflections on trentechoses.wordpress.com.
Photo credit: Damian Gadal

One Response to “The Postman”

  1. Emily says:

    I really love your story. The ending was especially great

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