Uncloistered

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  “She gazed ahead through a long reach of future days strung together like pearls in a rosary, every one like the others, and all smooth and flawless and innocent, and her heart went up in thankfulness. Outside was the fervid summer afternoon; the air was filled with the sounds of the busy harvest of men and birds and bees; there were halloos, metallic clatterings, sweet calls, and long hummings. Louisa sat, prayerfully numbering her days, like an uncloistered nun.” A New England Nun By Mary E. Wilkins Freeman (1852–1930)

My Mailbox

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Know what's in my mailbox? Nothin'.

Well, that’s not true.

Bills. Ads.

That’s what's in my mailbox.

Found a bird’s nest in my mailbox once . . . actually, it was in the newspaper box underneath the mailbox. I'm surprised the mail-man never said anything about it. But he's not the paper-boy, so not his problem I guess. And I don't get a newspaper. Should I be surprised that nobody noticed it at all, for as long as it was there? Anyway, the nest is not there anymore. 

Actually, he's not a mailman 'cause he's a she. She's the mail-woman. 

That sounds weird.

I get no mail unless I order something, subscribe to something. In other words, I don’t get anything unless I send it to myself--or someone wants my money.

That's what's in my mailbox. 

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