The Mailbox

Allow me, dear friends, to paint a drama that unfolded over the course of many years.  It started as a tale of vengeance, but ended as a tale of perseverance and humanity.  Perhaps with a bit of comedy.
And the entirety of this drama is played out on my weekly drive to church.  I can only imagine the true story behind what was observed.  So, of course, as a writer, I did just that.  But first, you, dear reader, should see what we saw.

Five years ago, when we moved in, we found a house like all the others on its block but with one change.  Its mailbox was not on a normal mailbox post, but rather something larger and reinforced. It was interesting, but we passed by and thought nothing of it. A few weeks later, that mailbox was down on its side, having been struck down by some ne'er-do-well. The following week, the box itself was all that remained, sitting on a concrete slab.

A few weeks later, we noticed that the owner of the mailbox had put in a new one, a metal pole, buried in the concrete. We figured this must have happened to him before, and he was tired of it, so he took a few precautions.
Lo and behold! Within a month that mailbox, too, was downed by a driver who could not stay on the road. Was it the same person? Do they know each other? Is there history there?  Here lies the story, that I shall leave unto your imaginations.

Over the next several years, this became a thing. Bigger and better mailboxes, in all shapes and sizes, all defeated, until the owner took out all the stops. He laid, by hand, a brick fortress, no less than a 4 foot cube, covering all but the very front of that mailbox. It was a beautiful piece of craftsmanship. The only thing it was missing were gargoyles to ward off its foes. It also took him a month to complete and it stood there for at least two years.

Then, a few months ago, on our drive to church, we noticed that the foul villain, whoever it may be, had demolished the mailbox. There were deep tire tracks leading up from the curb into the lawn. Mortar dust and brick shrapnel were all that could be seen of the poor mailbox. It was like that for weeks, a shameful wreck of what it had been. It seemed that this was it, that our evildoer had finally broken the spirit of the mailbox owner, and not simply his mailbox.

Until a couple of weeks ago. As we were driving by, I noticed the mailbox was once more standing erect, defiant, like a giant middle-finger towards its foe, albeit a skinny one. It was basically taped to a broomstick handle stuck in the yard.

I suppose this is a cheaper, easier alternative than replacing the thing every time.  But still, it is a testament to a spirit that did not break, but learned how to bend.