Who moved my mailbox?
Today, I’d like to talk a little bit about my mailbox. It’s not directly related to stamp collecting, but since mail (some of which bears stamps) is deposited into it, there is something of a connection.
At first glance, my mailbox seems pretty run of the mill. It’s part of a large array of boxes that serve the neighborhood in which my wife and I live.
My mailbox is special, though. It’s where I deposit my outgoing mail: letters to my sister, covers containing stamps to other collectors, and even appropriate decorated envelopes containing bill payments. And it’s where I find the mail addressed to my wife and me: letters, cards bearing happy news of weddings, magazines, and coupons. Certainly, the Internet connects me to the rest of the world almost instantly, but my mailbox connects me to the rest of the world in a more tangible way.
The best thing about my mailbox, however, is that it’s there each morning when I leave for work, and it’s there each evening when I get home from work. It is a solid symbol of stability in a world with a cracked and wobbly foundation.
The trouble is that someone decided that the array of mailboxes should be moved a bit further down the street, and when I got home this evening, my mailbox was in a different place than it usually is. In and of itself, that’s not necessarily a bad thing; I’m not a huge fan of change, but if there’s a good reason for it, then so be it. But that such a symbol of stability could be moved leads me to cry out:
“Who moved my mailbox?!”