W OMAN IN THE P OST O FFICE
Story by Tricia Runyan.
Illustration by
Kevin Bishop.
I
have no idea why I noticed her – and
then him. It was mid-morning on a
Saturday and I had rushed in to mail
a letter before the window closed.
Coming in the front door, something I
usually avoided doing because of the
long lines waiting to be served, I
dropped my letter in the slot and turned
to go check my mailbox.
Even though I didn’t know her, even
though I could only see her back and the
nape of her neck as she bent her head
forward over the counter at the post
office, I could tell that she had mis-
placed her glasses. Or perhaps she had
not had them in the first place. No mat-
ter which, she had that definitive pos-
ture, recognizable probably by only
someone who has been there, of a per-
son who is squinting so as to be able to
see something in her hand. Standing
16
next to her was a man, quite a bit older.
He too was looking at the paper and
from the lines evident on his face he did-
n’t like what it was that they were seeing.
Presidio’s post office is an icon of the
town. Never has mail been delivered to
doorsteps here. For that reason, it is a
gathering place for meet-ups and con-
versations, though not nearly as much as
when I was young. Every morning my
grandfather would get in his Jeep and he
would nod his head to invite me along.
The post office was a community ritual.
Men would pull up in their vehicles and
take their time going inside. The real
purpose of the daily trip was to stand
out front and visit with friends to hear
what had transpired during the night.
My memory is that I was very young
and was standing beside him, holding
his hand, with my other hand over my
Cenizo
Fourth Quarter 2018
eyes as I squinted up past the sun’s rays
in an attempt to see the faces behind the
voices.
My grandfather’s name was
Fernando. Fernando Daly. His father
was Irish. His mother was Mexican, but
she gave birth to Fernando in Presidio,
so he was American, bottom line, and
later would be the first man from
Presidio to serve in the US military – as
a cavalry man in France during World
War I.
It seems that I have drifted from the
original direction of this story. Perhaps it
is because I told you that I have no idea
why I looked twice and then a third time
at her and then the man with her. Most
likely it seemed apparent to me that
whatever it was that they were reading
was causing them distress. Having
known more than my share of distress,
my eye is often pulled into other people’s
moments and without really realizing
what I have done, I have quickly con-
cocted a story.
The woman would not have blushed,
had she known what I was thinking. In
no way was it disparaging. My first reac-
tion was curiosity about what might be
so important to stretch forward,
hunched, as they were doing, in a public
place. Possibly they had been waiting for
news about a settlement or a purchase
and the mail had brought a response
that was not what they had hoped to see.
Or maybe someone in the family had
written to tell about an illness. That was-
n’t likely because these days, if they don’t
use email, the mobile phone has elimi-
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