The Mailbox

A mailbox does not define us.

Nor does it divide us.

It’s only a place of passage, where words pause to breathe before finding their way to us.

A quiet symbol of all we have endured:

the distance, the silence, the pauses between our days.

And still, we go on…

with a kind of serene grace, with the lightness of those who have learned to care without the need to hold.

That, perhaps, is empathy to see both pain and beauty reflected in the same gaze.

They once said we were alike, two versions of the same soul.

But what we are goes beyond likeness.

It’s not reflection, it’s encounter.

Our friendship carries something rare, a tenderness that does not demand, a presence felt even in absence.

There are days when a single word from you

softens the edges of the world.

And others, when silence between us is enough.

Perhaps that is what moves me most, the quiet way we understand each other without the need for translation.

Perhaps we will never walk side by side, yet we remain close, bound by something unseen, constant, unbroken.

A thread woven from care, from truth, from an affection untouched by time.

And I know, somewhere deep within, that ours is the kind of friendship that endures, even as life turns and shifts around it.

For there are bonds that ask for nothing,

that simply go on.

And ours goes on.