“They Won’t Say”

The boxes don’t speak. They lean where the road bends and the hills begin to rise—sun-faded, rusted, tilted by wind and time, but still holding on, still showing up. They stay. They have stood through seasons that changed names and hands and fence lines. 

Through mornings wrapped in fog and long afternoons filled with dust and birdsong. Through days when the mail came heavy with news and days when it didn’t come at all. 

Always waiting. They’ve held it all. Seed catalogs thick with hope. Farmers’ Almanacs folded in half, marked in pen. Small envelopes with handwritten return addresses. Birthday cards with five-dollar bills taped inside. Notices, magazines, recipes clipped from the back pages. Each one a piece of something—delivered by the steady hand of Rural Free Delivery, the quiet heartbeat of life out here. 

The road is paved now, but it still moves slow. You don’t notice the boxes unless you already know they’re there. Unless you’ve looked before, or lived nearby, or waited for something to come that didn’t. I don’t know who owns the land behind them anymore. Maybe it’s changed. Maybe not. 

But the boxes remain. Their paint is gone. Numbers faded. Hinges creak. Still they stand. 

They don’t explain. Don’t recall. Don’t answer questions. 

They’ve read every word. 

And they won’t say. 
~Roger