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I was delivering letters to the moon last night
Not the kind with craters or dustâjust a clean, white surface with a mailbox at the center, like something out of a children's book. I walked in my old postal boots, the ones that creaked when I turned. The mail wasnât for anyone living. It was all from people whoâd forgotten they were gone. I handed them over one by one, and each time I did, the moon dimmed a little. When I finished, the mailbox vanished. I stood there in silence, and then I heard the dog at 311 barking at nothing again. I woke up still holding an envelope with no name on it.
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