(A very short story)
The three friends watch. Each day, precisely at 8 a.m., they watch through the front window. It is their routine now, like the biscuit at daybreak, the walk before bedtime. The mantle clock that ticks and tocks.
Across the dirt road, up the long country drive, the front door slowly opens. The storm door shimmers, the light shifting unsteadily on its window surface as it is opened, too.
The cane appears first. Always the cane, probing, tapping, finding purchase on the low cement porch. Then she follows, stooped, her thin body struggling to free herself of the storm door’s pull. Not much taller than the cane, she is gray-haired and wears a blue robe—always the blue robe.
She reaches shakily for the short railing along the single step. The friends tense, their eyes sharpen, their brows arch. They’d seen her fall here once. Seen her misjudge the step’s length. Seen her struggle to get back up, cane in one hand, the railing’s baluster and the letter in the other.
The letter. Always a letter … square size, white-papered, gripped tight in her left hand as the cane occupies her right.
She reaches the drive—two tracks, dirt, weedy, rarely used. Rarely visited. She begins the long walk to the main road, slowly, consistently, steadily, the cane setting her pace. Cane, step … step. Cane, step … step. Like a flawed waltz. She favors her right leg this morning. The friends notice. It is not routine.
The three relax a bit, though. The drive is smooth, despite its weeds. She’s never fallen here.
She reaches the mailbox, a dull-red country box atop a muddy pine post. The friends tense again. Cane in one hand, letter in the other, she must pull hard to open the mailbox door. It’s a stubborn door. They know it requires work.
Holding her letter between thumb and hand, she grasps the door’s handle with two fingers. She leans hard away from the box, against her cane, counting on her slight weight to help her thin fingers. She leans three times; each time, a jerk rattles her small frame. Each time, the friends’ eyes widen.
Upon the third pull, the door pops down. She slips the letter, now bent and wrinkled, into the box, closes the door, raises the red flag. She begins the long walk home. Cane, step … step. The three watch her climb her porch, pull open her storm door, shakily slide inside. They relax and find separate corners to sleep. Their routine.
Later that day, the postman comes in his truck, engine growling, brakes squealing. The friends bark, whine, growl back.
Then the house is quiet again. The dogs find their corners. The mantle clock ticks and tocks.
Each day, a letter. Each day, the postman takes her letter. Each day, he leaves nothing in return.
