Now I stand here waiting, once you fed me so frequently that often I became full. Full of letters and cards to family and friends sent near and far. Letters of love and romances, or mystery, some holding intrigue and danger. Then there where those letters containing requests for help or demands. At times there where many letters edged in black, each delivering pain. I saw them all those letters, the sad and the happy, the cruel and the kind, some mundane, some thoughtful, each carrying addresses, some close by, some faraway. Most had their stamp; except at Christmas, then little fingers stretched to give me penciled notes. I loved these penciled notes of hope.
But then there were those letters that I wanted to destroy, letters about war and death, letters telling of tragedy and disaster. Delivering pain so raw that occasionally I would see and hear your pain.
But now I wait, my cheerful colour is fading, few look my way and fewer still are the calls on my service. Now it seems rarely does anyone need my help to deliver their news, be it good or bad. But I will stand here and wait. Perhaps one day a letter will come for me, but I will hope it is not a black edged one, for I love my duty as a guardian of the postal service.