One day the old woman walked her daily walk to the mailbox to find a letter from one of her children. At last! They really did care about her! They sent her a letter in the mail! What joy this one letter brought her. She brought it inside, sat in a chair and held it, treasured it. Moments later, before opening the letter, the old woman suffered a heart attack and died. She died happy, having finally received a letter, knowing she was loved.
Turns out, the letter was a message from one of her children saying they had gone ahead and made arrangements for her to move into a retirement home anyway, despite her wishes.
The End. That's how the movie ends.
Maybe it's this movie that inspired me, long ago when i saw it at far too young an age. Maybe that was the purpose, to show it to young minds and instill in them a sense of guilt or obligation to be mindful of the elderly and lonely. Or, perhaps it is just a love of writing, and also stickers. I will assume it is a combination of these things, but something I love to do is write letters. I appreciate the small bit of happiness that accompanies a hand-written note in the mail. It's a dying art, as they say, and lest it die altogether, and lest anyone i know die from the joy a long-awaited letter received can apparently cause, I am determined to keep the art alive, and write letters to those I care about. And that's my first general thought regarding mailboxes, at present.
Two. One day I came out and opened the building's mailbox. We have a community mailbox for the 4 apartments that are contained within. Many letters arrive addressed to people who no longer live here. I don't pay much notice and let the landlord take care of them. On this one day, however, I checked the mailbox while i was on my way out and came upon the most glorious name ever to ring through my eyes. I have yet to decide how i will use this name. I am a little hesitant to even say it here, for fear someone will steal it, or that the woman herself will google search herself and find my blog and somehow be ill-affected by that. However, i'm willing to take this risk to share this name, that, like a letter, may give some joy to those who read it. I might use it as an alias, maybe in a time of emergency? I don't know. But here it is.
Mrs. Zita Hudnut.
I gasped aloud, looking around me to see if anyone else saw the name, and repeated it over and over in my mind so that, whatever happened--if it was thrown out before i returned home-- i would remember this name. Mrs. Zita Hudnut. This woman had to be someone special. I love this name. It's the best name i've ever heard. And somehow, it's incomplete without the Mrs. I often think about Mrs. Zita Hudnut, especially when times are difficult, when I can't seem to be able to do something, and i think, Mrs. Zita Hudnut would know what to do. Zita Hudnut would know the right way to do it. She wouldn't give up. And it keeps me going. I owe a lot to her.
Dear Mrs. Hudnut, who are you? One day i'd like to meet you, and talk about life and thoughts and philosophies, about how it was to live in this building, and how it was growing up in the world, having such a name.
Three. The third and final thought i have about mailboxes is this: I hate it when, after buying one measley thing from some weird company--just one!-- i have to pay the ultimate price by being embarrassed every time i open the community mailbox and see that all the stupid weird catalogues have my name on them. I've gotta take out a subscription to The New Yorker or something just to convince my neighbors I'm not completely lame.