The Mailbox
She has been sitting on a wooden stool eversince the first messages reached out for her ears.
Her ears were far too small to match her face and her face was far too small to match her entire body. Her body was infact too large to suit the unusual construction she has placed herself on. A fragile wooden building that seemed very likely to crack any moment she would eventually do a movement that was not of the chair’s pleasure. She received a lot of messages: from the right and from the left-ear side. She listens and replies. She is twisting and turning. She listens and remains silent. She listens.
Is she left because she is right?
The seat’s surface is creaking and squeaking below the heavy burden of her appearance. Sorrow, grieving and anger are her neighbours to the left, disappointment and despair to her right. No future in front and no past behind: But there is always a past beyond.
Not knowing who exactly the messangers were, she tried to carefully listen to each of their words by not saying too much. Indeed, it was not the talking people liked her for, but the fact, that she was nice to talk to.
Being a mailbox made her feel useful. Being a mailbox gave her a meaning. Nothing to do but listening and watching out for the seat not to break. She does not move, she is not moved, people know where to find her. No opening hours. No questions. No atonements. No choice.
Whenever she had a message to deliver, she would simply swallow it.