Mailbox

  This one was written in class when I was bored because my friend Jarfa dropped her stuffed animal and it inspired me to write. 

Mailbox

  

   The day was bad, rainy and dark. It was the kind of day that made people cuddle up in pajamas and watch a movie. The kind of day that lasted forever and prompted children to sing songs to lighten the weather.  The boy should have been inside, she knew, watching T.V and staying dry.

   Despite what should have been happening, she watched from across the street as the neighbor’s young boy crept out into the front yard, his bare feet sinking into the water clogged grass when he stepped off the front path.

   The bright red ball he carried was eye catching, vivid against the gray, stormy scenery. The rain had let up a little in the past hour, only a slight drizzle was left to encourage the boy to go back inside; it wasn’t enough.

   As he made his way down the yard he pulled his hand out of his jacket, revealing a stuffed cow, his small fingers gripping it tightly.

   She wondered for a moment what his goal was before thinking she should walk over and let his mother know he was outside. The boy stepped off the curb onto the slick, black road as she stood and walked to her porch stairs. He walked to the little mailbox, pulling the wooden door down.

  She saw the ball slip from the crook of his arm, bouncing with a wet echo into the road. The boy followed it, his steps uneven as he stooped to catch the elusive toy.

   Tires screeched, drowning out her scream. She ran forward, arms out as though she could stop the truck that hit its breaks wildly, skidding along the road. When it finally stopped the driver’s door popped open, a man stumbling out, shaking with his mouth agape in shock.

   The rain continued on, indifferent to what had happened on the road, splashing on the still-hot hood of the truck. It was a large and blue truck, blocking her view of the boy and the mailbox. For a moment she paused, looking over the truck as though it was idling next to her at a stop light. The front fender was dented on the left side and the windshield was dirty. The man himself looked as though he had just left a twenty-four hour diner after drinking a few cups of coffee and chatting up the waitresses. His hair was disheveled and his clothes rumpled. Probably just passing through, an out-of-towner.

   “He ran out in front of me!” the man cried, motioning to her as she passed him without a glance.

  She continued on, rounding the truck slowly, every breath pushing her forward, keeping her going.

  The truck had turned a little, the boy laying half under it. All she could see of him was the back of his head and his arm which was stretched out, fingers splayed as though he was reaching for something.

  Her eyes were drawn away from the boy to the stuffed cow the child had been clutching. It was lying a few inches from his fingers on its round back, glassy, black eyes staring into the sky. Its small, stiff arms were reaching up perpetually, like a child that would never be picked up again.

  A piece of paper was hanging out of the mailbox to her left, drops of water splashing onto the words carefully written on it. She plucked it out of the mailbox, staring down at it as the drops continued to fall. For my sister, it read, Mr. Fellow and my red ball. Get better soon.

  She looked again at the stuffed cow on the ground, barely hearing the wails of the parents that had finally noticed their child was not inside, or maybe had just heard the noise.

  Mr. Fellow was still staring up at the darkened sky; on his mouth a permanent smile was stitched. As she watched, rain drops fell on its face, sliding from its eyes like tears.