I was delivering letters to the moon last night

Not the kind with craters or dust—just a clean, white surface with a mailbox at the center, like something from a children's book. I handed the last envelope to a figure in a silver coat who didn’t look up. The dog at 311 was there too, barking at the stars. When I woke, my hands were cold, and I couldn’t remember if I’d been walking or floating. December’s always like that—full of things that don’t quite land.