The postman's knock brought the housewife whose husband was away. He asked for water as she grabbed the letter from his hand. As he drank, the glass trembled within the sad wrinkles of his hand. White hair crowded his brow, hiding a permanent frown. She consumed the letter again and again, but his glass was empty in no time.
The husband wrote only when he could, and she waited through the night for some dream to resolve her pain. His letters salved a deep wrenching ache she couldn't pluck out herself. When she wrote, "I miss you so much," he replied: "I don't even get time to think of home."
The postman knew these stories of departure and deprivation, and he wished he could offer something more. He scuttled back and forth like a fish in a drowning world, watching the death of hope, wanting to ask, "How can I help?"
He had known this woman for more than ten years, partaken of her laughter and tears. He now felt he was an inalienable part of her world. A comforting uncle whose word was enough to soothe her. He wondered how she would take his news.
The woman looked at him and said, "Thank you," and waited for him to back away from the door. He stood for a moment longer, wiped the sweat off his brow and said, "Madam, I won't be coming any more."
She paled. "Why not?"
"I'm retiring today."
"Then who'll bring his letters?" she asked.
