A letter

This one I'll to write very seriously.

          While written letters to family and loved ones seem old fashion to us, let's remind ourselves that the old are still with us. One of these of the old was a widowed woman who was most likely in her eighties, but looked like a century had passed by for her. Always wearing a summer dress, with a neat jacket in the winter, she always walked with back slightly curved, but face facing forward. Her eyes never shifting, she had the confidence of time with her- hard times and good times, for sure. Yet despite her appearance and countenance, that so much commanded respect not just because she was an elderly, but also because her demeanor of a lady, the widowed woman never spoke a word of her life story to anyone.

          There was something of an omnipresence to her. She could be seen at the park in the morning, still walking; she could be seen at the deli ordering a chicken salad or a small ham sandwich; she could be seen at the hallway of the apartment building on her way back to her home; but most expectingly, she could be seen somewhere near the mailbox, envelope in hand, soon to be deposited in the blue metal box.

          She greeted people around her with simple 'hi's' and 'hello's', sometimes with a smile, most of the time not. As mentioned before, she did not seem to stop or wait for any conversation to start or end- just her presence was noted and appreciated, and for her, others' presences were simply acknowledged. She did, however, spoke more than one word or two to the postal worker, and her face glowed with what could only be said to be genuine happiness. She knew the disparate postalmen and women by name, by heart. She complained to them, thanked them, criticized them, and greeted them, always with a childish, or perhaps adolescent, grin. There was a moment of joy whenever she received mail from whoever postal worker had the luck to hand it over to her, in person.

          So, rain or shine, the old, widowed woman could be seen near the mailbox, opening its lid and sliding in envelops of words and words to whoever she was corresponding with, writing to, communcating with, and rememebering.

The End

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