I am a mailbox. It seems to be nothing special to the average citizen walking by my unauthorized gaze, but I am the sole provider of communication throughout this world. I may be something that’s standing on the curb, waiting patiently for a mailman, or woman, to come and drop something in my slot, and I am. But I enjoy my job. I see everything that goes on in the neighborhood. I see children playing outside in front lawns when they’re toddlers, soon growing up to small children and heading off to school for the first time, backpacks swinging on their backs. They have nothing to put in those backpacks, but they make the children feel grown up, important, like they’re mommy or daddy going off to work in the morning. Soon these children grow up to be teenagers and I witness them being picked up and dropped off for dates, school, dances, other such things. They grow up, move out, the houses are sold, another family moves in, and the process begins all over again. Dull? You might say so. It all becomes a blur after awhile. The only welcome change I get is the different mail being dropped off everyday; even the mailman or woman changes sometimes. Bills, letters, birthday cards, they all get dropped here. With me. Without me, people wouldn’t be able to get their mail. Unless it gets sent by email, which will put me out on the streets, figuratively of course. Will I just become a decoration, something for the neighbors to peer at and say “I like what So-and-So did with their lawn. Remember when we actually used to get mail?”