As a kid, I used to feel my hopeful heart
lift when I’d see the red flap hanging,

the one Dad installed below our mailbox
on its sturdy post across the street.

That meant the mail lady had come,
as we called our carrier who drove around

in a right-handed-drive Jeep, delivering
through our rural neighborhood. What might

be in the box today? A note from Grandma
all the way from Southern California

pounded out on her cursive typewriter?
Mom’s longed-for Publishers Clearinghouse

letter announcing that she’d finally won?
Any number of magazines—Time and Life

for the parents, Seventeen for me,
American Girl for my younger sister?

A half century later, living in my
century-old house in the city,

my heart still rises when I hear
on my porch the telltale metallic

clunk of the red mailbox lid,
the mail person’s hand having

deposited the day’s offerings.
Though many of the magazines

now arrive in my electronic in-box
along with the bills, there’s still

the hope of an old-fashioned
postcard or letter, perhaps even

written by hand and introduced
to an envelope with a stamp affixed

in the upper right corner. A note
of thanks or an invitation,

a birthday card, a bit of reaching
out in this digital age that says,

I remember you. Thinking of you.
Wish you were here,

sending love through the mail,
which is almost as good,

we tell ourselves, as a
live, in-person hug.