I have this dream that one day (maybe tomorrow or perhaps the day after), while walking to work, I will pass by those mailstop boxes and they will be bursting. Every last one, full to its fullest with envelopes. Not bills, not painfully dissapointing flyers from the career center, but letters. Letters filled with stories, filled with memories, filled with feeling. Letters written so quickly that you can barely read the handwriting, letters written so long they took extra postage. Letters to you.
Two of the mailing workers will just be standing there, surrounded by more crates overflowing with letters, shrugging their shoulders; the mailboxes don't have the capacity to hold this much love.
Because, for some reason, all at once, everyone wanted to write a letter. They wrote one to their best friend. They wrote one to their nephew. They wrote one to someone who might not know who they are but deserves a letter all the same. Everyone tugged open that dusty stationary drawer and felt the muscles in their wrist cramp with writing, writing, writing.
And you'll walk up, clamber up on the stepstool, turn your dial counter clockwise-clockwise-counter clockwise, and pull out a fistful of love. A physical manifestation of how valued you are by those people who care for you. Ink bled onto paper to tell you why you mean something in this world.