Snow, rain, heat, or gloom of night, just as the Postal Service has always promised, our mail carrier, Teresa, shows up. She unloads her little truck, piles packages and letters and lord knows what else into the sort of wagon most of us use for idyllic summer picnics, and hobbles into the lobby. Hobbles, because she has some sort of crippling condition that renders her stooped and painstakingly slow. Teresa spends only a few moments in the lobby, catching her breath, no doubt, dropping off the larger packages, and sharing some gossip with the afternoon door-person. Most of us never cross paths with Teresa, as she disappears quickly -- as quickly as she can -- into the back, where she wheels around in some sort of assistive device, filling upwards of 400 boxes.
The first time I actually met Teresa, I had caught up with her in the lobby to let her know that I had changed apartments, hoping she would intercept mail not yet forwarded. She already knew -- not me, but my name and my new location -- and she assured me it would be done. What struck me most was not her efficiency, admirable though it was. It was her smile. Wide, radiant, sincere. Such a smile atop a body that seems to have broken down a good bit, a body compelled nevertheless to slog through the sort of abominable meteorological onslaughts that keep those of us with fully functioning legs increasingly dependent upon Grub Hub, wishing they would also walk our dogs.
I kept my eye out for Teresa's truck yesterday, because I wanted to give her a little something for the holidays. I wondered whether even somebody like Teresa, dedicated and dependable no matter what, would show up to navigate the day's icy walkways and arctic temperatures, not to mention the winds near Lake Michigan that made it almost impossible to open our building's back door.
Shame on me for my skepticism. Teresa was already in the back, so I opened my little box and called out to her. She wheeled around, perched exactly at the right level to peer back out at me. Just her sparkling eyes and her glorious smile sending rays of light through my empty mailbox. Largely invisible Teresa, radiant just to say hello, even before I handed her my insignificant gift.
She is retiring this week, she told me. As thrilled as I am for Teresa -- she has certainly earned some R & R -- I feel a little lost. Not because of the mail -- I do most things on-line, so snail mail has become somewhat irrelevant. I expect though, that in Teresa's place, there will be somebody young and upright, someone who arrives much earlier in the day, someone who maybe resents having to lug around other folks' mail in snow, rain, heat, gloom, or whatever else Chicago winters have to offer.
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year and Glorious Retirement, Teresa. And happy and healthy holidays to all the Teresa's out there, and to the rest of us who might try harder, next year, to find things to smile about.
