The Past Office
For fifteen years the letter sat beneath the antiquated mail sorter. A clumsy man named Clyde, who would retire three months later (and be buried fourteen days after that), had dropped it and it slid several feet beneath the bulky contraption with the silly name. He thought briefly about retrieving it, but his sciatica was acting up, and Clyde couldn’t be bothered. So, it sat beneath the Sort-O-Matic 3000
“They aren’t real, they aren’t real,” the boy whispered, making himself as small as he could in the corner of the hospital elevator. He huddled on the floor beneath the buttons that lit up when pressed, hugging his knees, shivering, and crying. In the past, when he’d had nightmares, he sometimes soiled himself. He prayed he would not mess himself today. He could only visit his mother once a day; if he had to bike home to change his pants, he wouldn’t be back before visiting hours ended.
The man studies himself in the mirror. It’s something he does daily. Inventorying the new wrinkles, the new gray hairs.
Where had his life gone?
He moves through his life with a near-constant feeling of shame. Like he ought to apologize to everyone for his existence. He had made his life small. He never thought he’d be alone. Not at this age. The time for settling down had come and gone. He knows he should choose different things. That it’s still not too…
