Strong legs and a pension

Image of the side of a United States Postal Service truck at the top of a hill overlooking a street and buildings in the background. Photo credit: Sean Boyd on Unsplash.

He wasn’t childbirth, but listen, he knew how to deliver.
A carrier of good, bad, and the in-between.

M.I.A. called it in Paper Planes, he came packed and delivered. Swagger unmatched.

Every day on his shoulders, he held the world and yet, ended his days weightless.
If I could name his occupation: Strong Legs with a Pension.

He carried love wrapped in foreign stamps.
He carried soul crushing news.
He carried the first, the second, and the final warning.

He carried the envelopes that took more than they gave.
Thank you, Bill.
He witnessed shifting of households: who left, who came, and who remained.

Some days, he knew before I did when my life changed.

What other profession lets you hold a thousand lives in a bag?
He carried it all with arms wide open.
He never missed leg day.
I’m sure his biceps didn’t either.
His hands stayed ready to give.

And the way he carried himself was evident in the way he carried us.
Every envelope, handled with care.
Rarely did mail find the wrong home.
Every larger box, he tucked in the door gently.
He protected belongings like a secret.
Even from a distance he carried a glow about him.
The warmest of welcomes came from the neighborly Paw Patrol troops.
Trust the bark of love.

He was the steward of knowledge. He knew things no one else knew.
The government’s letters.
The postcard from Dad.
The Chicago skyline etched with “come back soon.”
He wasn’t sender or receiver, but the bridge, the quiet, yet mighty vessel that kept our small world alive.

I imagine the DSW postcards echoed my reclaimed shoe obsession.
Credit card incentives torn as quickly as they came — like him, never keeping what he carried.
He was like a therapist of sealed envelopes: not quite secrets, but confidential conveyance.
He carried without telling, stamped by silence.

Time moved, and so did I.
The new house numbers awakened a new perspective.
Who really was this man? The one with the abyss of a paper trail.
There he was uninvited and invited into my life domain.
He knew more about me than some of my friends did.

He was six feet and melanated.
Those glasses kept him sharp.
He never entered my block without purpose.
His smile — carried the sunlight.
Even with his arms overflowing, he’d return a wave.

One day, I decided to be a messenger too.
Unabashed
A bold move cuffed with desire.
So, I asked.
He kindly declined with a love sealed elsewhere.

For a moment, I imagined I could clay make time, and me, be the delivery that he really wanted.

But respect is my ministry.
His precious hands bore our lives’ most delicate cargo.
His word was bond.
That loyal soul.
Of course he had someone. Someone who experienced his weightless messages. A witness to his beauty beyond the uniform.

The mail delivery man. A classic man.
He knew me before I ever knew him.

And the things he carried weren’t just parcels, but people.
He webbed us together, invisible threads along his route.
May the bridge between us be like a mere message in the bottle.

May his strong legs earn their pension.