Who keeps putting handfuls of grass in my mailbox?

Image by Fann Xu

Image by Fann Xu

Wesley Haaf ‘18

To the person who keeps putting handfuls of grass in my mailbox:

My mailbox is a saving, amazing grace. It’s branded in my routine. I eat a meal, and then I check it. Bip-bop/Snip-snap. And sometimes I get mail from Grammy and last year even Mommy or Pep. And usually I can count on these cute little miniature posters that I know everyone gets in their box, but thinking the thought of someone taking time out of their day to do even the smallest thing with me in mind brightens the darkness of mine eye.

Get the picture, cretin? I cherish daily happenstances upon affection, even if it’s a tidbit. I’ve gotten sprinkles, flowers, candies, nails, candles, notes, nails, and flowers. I know—they’re all small and burnable and one might even say dinky, but let me tell you one thing: Have you ever gotten a John Keats poem about love with your name on it that people in a poetry class had to put in people’s mailboxes? You have no idea the warmth of some shadowy figure clueing you in on the hurricane of emotions that is their psyche. It’s real, a true connection, between souls, severed by the cold, cold Bennington social-scape. I may never know who gave me that poem that day, but I still keep it under my pillow, and paw at the lead markings that spell my name. I smooch the prose and graze my eyelashes on it, and the printer ink’s faded from my tears, but I know for sure my secret admirer will someday grant me none other than another figurative kiss on the cheek. That’s all I really want. And that’s all I really need.

But you’ve spoiled all this into lovey-dovey personal goop! Because you keep putting grass in my mailbox! Every darned day I find a new patch o’ lawn in my box. I throw it in the trash, out the window, down the toilet, but every time I turn around, lo and behold what do I see, that’s right, a wad; a mound; a big-time load of the green stuff. You’re making me look like a Grade-A bozo, I hope you know. You’ve no idea the extent to my pain. Please, I beg thee, end this taunt. I’m fragile, and cold, and lonely. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory… …and to my admirer, don’t forsake me… tell my mother I… love...