Love Letter Mailbox
In the local paper, he read about the love letter mailbox at the waterfront.
He got lost trying to find it, wandering among the warehouses,
alleys blocked by chain-link fences, forklifts weaving past him,
delivery trucks blocking his view of the water. He finally picked up
an urban trail, and past the boatyard, blackberries and stairs to the beach
there it was, painted pink with hearts and flowers. Inside he found
hand-written artsy notes. He couldn’t read them. He wanted as much love
as the next guy, but these weren’t for him. Later he wondered
if maybe they were. Love is love, as the sign says. He liked thinking the city
had a source of love, a spring of it, bubbling up from the earth
and pouring out in the form of notes inside a flowery letterbox.
Love is love is love. Anyone can go there and get loved and,
better yet, leave love behind. Not everyone wants that, of course.
He admits to being a romantic. He likes a good urban walk
among fishing gear and old boats in dry dock. When the sun burns through,
Mt. Baker pokes its white cap above the rusty odd-shaped containers
of the disused chemical plant. Love is love is love is love. You can find it
anyplace, the letterbox is telling him. Wherever you are, you are worthy.
