His leather mailbag sagged heavily on one shoulder, swinging with each labored stride. He paused every few houses, one hand pressed against his lower back, and a low, tired sigh escaped his lips. He could not have been older than sixty. Streaks of gray ran through his hair beneath the standard-issue cap, and his face, flushed from the unforgiving heat, carried the faint crease of years spent laboring outdoors. A mix of determination and exhaustion made him move like a man carrying both the mail and the weight of the world. I assumed he was filling in for a regular route that had called in sick—I’d never seen him before in our neighborhood.Continue reading…
