Excerpt of “For the Postman”

by Helen Farrar

The following excerpt is from Helen Farrar’s story, “For the Postman,” one of our honorable mentions:

Opening our inner front door, I saw the red tones of the postman’s jacket through the frosted glass of the porch door first.

It wasn’t our regular postman, the super friendly Neal, resident of our own village; although he did look familiar.

In that briefest of moments between opening one door and the next, what struck me most was how far away he stood. As I opened the porch door with as cheery a greeting as I could muster, he shuffled at the foot of our entrance steps, pile of varied sized parcels in his hands. With a quick and awkward step forward, he placed the parcels nearer the door, rapidly scanning and releasing each one as if it was a hot coal.

“I’m not—” he started.

“Nor am I.” I responded.

“I’m not allowed to ask you to sign for them so I’ve done it for you.”

“Ok, no problem, thanks very much,” I returned with a smile, realizing I’d assumed the end of his opening statement incorrectly.

“How are you?” I asked. “Really…”

“Scared,” he replied, only now catching my eye, as if making eye contact previously might have precipitated a dangerous connection between us.

His hesitant smile indicated he was grateful for the real question, and a little embarrassed at his honest reply. I attempted to engage in some warm conversation; a brief encouragement; some mumbled gratitude. But he was hovering, shaken, keen to depart, and I let him go of course, not extending the agony for him.

I paused at the door as he left. It was a bright morning and the first hints of spring hung in the breeze and from the newly formed bulbous buds on the overhanging branches of the chestnut trees in front of me. Still chilly, but the sort of day that gives you hope, especially after the plethora of recent storms that left neighbouring villages under deep water.