The Postman

For some people, a job is just a job. Nine till five. Downing a coffee, organising, emailing, phoning, delegating, sorting, wolfing down lunch, some more emailing, downing a coffee, consulting with colleagues, discussing, downing a coffee, meeting deadlines, catching up with the boss, more emailing. And on it goes, day after day.

I used to think of my job as just a job. Until one day, I delivered a special parcel to a young woman who had recently lost her husband. She ripped it open like it held the answer to everything she’d been questioning. I don’t know why a silver medal on a royal blue ribbon overwhelmed her like it did, but when her face lit up, and she squeezed me in a hug, I knew then that my job wasn’t just a job.

Some people can’t understand why delivering mail makes me happy. Sometimes I get abuse, mock laughter, obscene gestures. It’s not often. People have bad days, and although they take it out on their local postman, it’s not like I’ve never done the same to others in a moment of distress.

Not all parcels and letters come with good news, but the ones that do put a smile on people’s faces, and the ones that don’t…well, that’s my chance to offer a comforting smile.

My job isn’t just a job, it’s what I’m meant to do.

Writer. Faith walker. Notebook collector. Coffee drinker. Coffee Drinker. Coffee Drinker. Mother of two...and counting... @BathSpaUni MA CW grad.
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