Donald

There are very few rules in my house growing up that I outright broke. One of these rules was not crossing one of the four main roads that create a boundary to my neighborhood, and I crossed it fairly regularly with a friend to go to the drug store on the other side. So we could buy candy. Which was another rule broken.

One Saturday morning, Sarah and I set out on such a mission. I remember lots of things about that day seeing as I got hit by a car and broke my wrist. There are some things I do not remember at all, like the time right after falling and before Sarah's mom arrived in her station wagon to pick us and our bikes up, or the ride to the emergency room. (Did we go to the emergency room? I have no idea.) But I do remember that our mailman was at the house when we pulled up in the station wagon.

Donald was our mailman for many years. He must have come in the late afternoons, when I was home from school. He delivered tons of letters to me from my various penpals over the years. I was penpals with our next-door neighbor's niece. I was penpals with kids I went to camp with. I was penpals with my grandmother. I even wrote away for a penpal from a magazine. I also got magazines and birthday presents and cards in the mail. I would open whatever was addressed to the whole family, even if it was junk mail. I was extremely interested in the mail being delivered, and even jealous when all the mail was for my parents, even if it was all bills (though as my mom promised, that feeling faded when I started getting my own bills). I'm sure Donald and I had conversations about my penpals and whether there was anything for me. Mostly I remember that he seemed to look forward to talking to me and the words we exchanged each time were pleasant and funny and made each of our days better.

So Donald was just crossing our lawn that May day when Sarah's mom pulled into the driveway to drop off a slightly mangled girl and bike. I don't remember what I said to him, but I'm sure I was hysterical and crying and dreading telling my mom I had broken a rule. I don't remember what Donald said to me, but he seemed genuinely concerned about me and for the following month or so we talked about my wrist. I realize now not only how long he had been part of my life, but also that I had been part of his life, intersecting it in this very specific context. Now that I'm an adult with somewhat regular interactions with some kids, I understand this better and wonder if the kids will remember me at all, or if Donald wonders if I remember him. I do.