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"You’re a wonderful mother,” I wrote on the Mother’s Day card with the picture of sunflowers, garden gloves, and a watering can. “You were always home for me after school with warm cookies and milk. You led our 4-H club and worked in PTA. Best of all, now you’re my friend, sharing with me a love of beauty, puzzlement at the mysteries of men, and respect for children.”
I walked down the gravel driveway to the mailbox, opened the metal door, and slid in the card. As I shut the door and pulled up the red flag, I remembered another mailbox from long ago.
As a child I spent hours in a small playhouse in the backyard. I decked it out with curtains strung on twine, a window box planted with marigolds, and a mailbox made from a coffee can. The can was nailed to the outside wall of the playhouse, next to the window. It was painted with green house paint and fitted with a small board inside to create a flat, horizontal surface.
One languid summer day I ran into the house and found my mother mopping the kitchen floor. “Mama,” I asked, “could you bring me some mail?”
She straightened up and held the mop in one hand, massaging the small of her back with the other. She looked down at me and smiled. Her bright blue eyes softened as she looked at me, her suntanned, pigtailed daughter. “Well, yes, I think I can, after I finish this floor,” she said. “You go back to the playhouse and wait awhile. I’ll be there.”
So I ran outside, letting the screen door slam behind me. I skipped down the narrow brick path to the clothesline and under it to the playhouse beside the dwarf apple tree. I busied myself with little-girl housekeeping: washing my doll dishes, tidying the bed, sweeping the floor with the toy corn-straw broom. Then I heard steps on the brick path. “Mail time!” Mama called in a high voice.
I heard the
thunk of envelopes firmly striking the inside of the coffee can. After waiting to give her time to walk
