Mailbox Dreams
I dream, vividly and often, about the walk from the back door of the house I grew up in to our roadside mailbox. And I remember the different textures on my bare feet.
First, the wooden back-door steps; feet sounding plonk plonk plonk down the stairs, to the walkway with uneven bumps of big flat stones set in cement.
Then two more stone steps down—don’t s…
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