The relationship between a mailbox and its home is a strange and tense one. They seem to always be so in tune with either and yet they stay so far apart. Without the mailbox the house would be in much trouble, without paid bills and Christmas cards the house would be sad and broken. As the two live together the mailbox begins to think irrationally. His mind contemplates a time when he can turn around and see the house he is so close to. The house stays firm, thinking of nothing except its contentment with its spot and how it will stay strong through toughening times. The mailbox is dying inside. He begins to rust, and sway. He creaks and tilts; anything to see the house behind it. In manic disarray, he begins to falls apart. Nothing more than metal, nothing more than scraps, the mailbox has become a container for junk and bad news; the house looks on in disapproval. Ashamed of his old friend and confidant, disappearing before him, the house felt himself sigh. What used to be necessary to the well being of the house had become obsolete, a hassle, and an overall pathetic piece of equipment.