The mailbox sits at the center of a cul-de-sac that holds eight red brick townhomes on each side. The box has eight perfectly symmetrical squares, with eight perfectly aligned keyholes. The mailbox is a flat, quiet gray. Monday through Friday, people from each side of the cul-de-sac stop by the mailbox to retrieve their mail. Monday through Friday, and some weekends, they stop by, keys in hand, turn the lock, reach inside, some with looks of interest and others hurried to continue their day. On variant days, some drop their keys or mail or both. On variant days, no one stops by. On variant days, the mailbox stands alone, and loneliness is palpable because no one is in sight or they fly away so fast, no one is in sight. Each day the mailbox stoically stands, welcoming familiar faces. Townhouse 132 walks away empty handed after checking the mail, and 145 walks away hands full, shaking her head as she tries to carry the mail, her keys, and the retractable leash with a wonderfully busy Cocker Spaniel at the end. 

Throughout the week they repeat this ritual, some waiting for others to finish before they approach. It’s all so polite, no loss of feathers; all of them have their own cadences, jingling keys, click clacks, high heels, barking dogs, ringtones and mumbled conversations. Mailbox music cascades down each side of the cul-de-sac. And then there’s 134 with windows facing the mailbox, key side. Some say she lost her wings a long time ago, and now her mailbox is so full they stopped delivering mail. 134 sits on her windowsill like a cat waiting for birds to fly by or hover close enough to the glass to be caught. She waits patiently, watching and waiting to hear the clink of the keys, the sounds of birdsong. She watches the bird feeder at the center of things. Some birds land, rest their wings while sampling seeds, and others hover just enough to retrieve a few pieces before flying off to their well-manicured nests. Cardinals, orioles, blue jays, starlings and chickadees rattle their keys, retrieve some seeds, extend their wings. 134 imagines she used to be a cat who played outside, traversing stairs, climbing trees, hiding behind bushes, finding safe places to warm her fur in the sun. Chasing birds, chasing birds, chasing birds. She imagines sitting atop the mailbox, for all the cul-de-sac to see. Instead, as always, she stays inside alone, resisting the urge to reach through the glass, to catch birds in her paws, to play with cardinals at her leisure. Nothing menacing, just playfully sharp claws waiting to catch something, anything, everything.