It’s a glorious afternoon when I walk out of a parking garage to find the post office.
It’s paradoxical, perhaps, that a stationary building represents adventure to me, but it does. I think of all the words printed or written painstakingly on various types of paper, fitted into envelopes, making their way on planes and trucks to mailboxes around the country.
It’s one of my favorite things to visit in every new town; even when city buildings and libraries and stores are being built modernly, the post office is always quaint.
I’m still learning the rhythms of my new town, even though I’ve lived here since September. And today, I stepped into a blustery Saturday, watching cars breeze down Main Street and people wander casually down the sidewalk. I made my own way, by instinct, to the Bean and Leaf Café, where my roommate and our friend sat, laptops already open for the afternoon of work ahead.
It’s stability and connection, the post office, uniting the two as perhaps nothing else does. The building’s always there, the letters always rushing through, giving us glimpses of friends and family miles away and the opportunity to celebrate their joys and mourn their sorrows. I felt comforted as I saw it; I have not wandered often into ROMI’s downtown, but it felt like a warm invitation, letters embossed firmly into a thick paper, requesting no RVSP but a “drop by whenever you like.”