The Postman

In the days following my father’s passing the testator would read aloud his wishes: “By now you all will surely have rummaged through my things. There’s a little jar I rather like. There are several so you will have to decipher for yourself which one is my favorite. I should like to be cremated. My remains shall be taken to their final resting place off the coast of Ireland amongst the conifers of Sherkin Island. ” 

My father had never spoken a word about Ireland in his life. He was a postman of the esteemed US Postal Service. In his view, the profession of a postman was the most noble in the world. You would find it difficult to disagree if you knew my father. He was the carrier of our community’s heart. He often philosophized that it was his act of divine grace with the world. 

That and his three daughters, who I reckon he’d prefer to have been delivered by mail. My parents divorced when my sisters and I were three years old. In a concerning turn of events for our upbringing, our mother shipped off to France. She took the dog.

My father was the piece of our lives that made things make sense, but at the same time, he also had the peculiar quality of disturbing that rhythm when we were least expecting it. 

On the summation of his decrees, my sisters and I had boarded a plane 5,000 miles across the world with no discernible reason why, continuing from Dublin by train to the southernmost region of the country like a misdirected bullet across a guiltless plain.  

My sisters avoided the question entirely. Pauline, not generally renowned for her social competence, had been continuously sipping from the water cup she had been handed twenty minutes before. Monique was unimaginably forlorn. This was plain by the look of her. It’s frightening to recollect. 

One might furthermore recall our escapades as wee ones. Sadness would befall her, moreso when the deeds were done than when they were unproved. Let us say there was an ageless grace which dawned upon her from a very early time, and this did less to nourish her than to dishearten her.  

I passed the time attempting to make eye contact with a sheep. 

The present is marked by exhaustion. We are tired. How else to put it? From another window, this world would be idyllic. It once was, if I can recall correctly. I remember a drive such as this through unsullied landscapes spotted with dairy cows under the backdrop of joyous, weeping green leaves. My sisters were tired then, too, but they slept. It’s possible that my memory fails me, but I felt nothing but happiness there. 

It’s curious how the sanctity of one thing can be marked down by pure circumstance. The sweet doing nothing. The business of doing nothing can only be sweet without the weight of everything. 

I recall a conversation I had with my boss about my father’s passing. It went something like this: “Hey Ovida, just calling to make sure you will have your report in tomorrow by noon. Thanks!” 

Suffice it to say I am now unemployed, and better off for it. But if there was anybody who would tell you work can be rewarding, even beautiful, it would be my father. He could make mowing the lawn a supreme triumph. 

I suppose I’ve never really seen it fit to integrate myself into the social madness of the working world. It doesn’t seem truthful, to say the least. Humans have adopted false personas in order to be deemed tolerable by the harsh reality of life, and we see that acted out in a culture which continues to reveal how little we understand ourselves. That’s often what crosses my mind when I see knackered enterprising folk in suits and ties walking around like, “how do you do?” and such. Monkeys gone wild. 

The morning sun was sailing right alongside us, inviting dreariness and casting shadows across the valley. 

I have been trying to define that moment in our lives. Before my father’s death, my sisters and I had been away at separate universities �" broken off from a childhood spent as three lives in one. There is a burden to being linked with other human souls.  However, there’s always a comfort in returning together to the lost periods of one's life and filling in the missing pieces. I found myself wondering why I continue to return there. I never again expected to share moments like that with my sisters �" moments of nothingness that manifest the synergetic ambiguity of siblinghood and youth. It’s the found quality that can only be understood through what was learned by those who grew up together.

“Why are some of the sheep painted blue? Do you suppose it’s because they’re sad?” I asked.

“No…” Pauline said, “Bleu cheese.” 

The train attendants had started down the aisle with a cart of carrot soup. Chatter amongst passengers picked up at the same time. I don’t think it was a coincidence. 

I couldn’t help but think about the health benefits for my eyes with each bite. 

At its hest, and with no regard for the soup man, the train abruptly and aggressively failed to propel us forward. The engine may have been poorly, but the logistics remain unclear. We found ourselves duly stranded, such as would seem to follow with the proper stagnancy of our tale. I took the soup. 

The truthful and natural order of this continuation is found in the following information which I regret to report, but I hope it doesn’t sway you from hearing more about our story.

I am dying too. 

On the train that day, I felt a connection with chance, that all life was playing out according to its jurisdictions. I had never understood judgment in such a manner, which had played out recurrently in my time but had never felt as lawfully guttural.  

As much as I love my father, I have to admit that I understand I won’t ever see him again. Even if I did, it wouldn’t be the same. If there is such an order to the universe that would bring loved ones together again in death, I don’t know that there would be as much to hold on to in love. Everything would be too wonderful to require such a thing. 

Reviews

[Fabian G. Franklin]

This was a lovely story. I like the family aspect and the hints that might just as well be personality traits among the siblings. I grew up with seven of my own (three brothers and four sisters) so I can confidently say I'm an expert in that category. I enjoyed the bits of humor, likewise. There are plenty of pontificating asses who'll try to smother you in their self-importance when they don't even know the difference between "want" and "went" but that's an observation you've already been made aware of. Some folks are so enamored with themselves they can't put their opinion in a bottomless bucket. You need hip waders to step around them. I enjoyed the read. This is good writing. I look forward to reading more from you. F.

[Julie McCarthy (juliesp..]

Ok this won’t be my last read I’ve read again and love everything about this story !no joke
The way you Incorporated little things so easily and seamlessly into it like the divorce how your father was a perfectionist how you felt on plane how your sister held her cup how you tried to look at a sheep then everything was interwoven beautifully each little detail in your story adding flavour I love it
I love the style of this write and I don’t care what the significance of the postman is or even if it’s relevant I don’t care I just love it
I have read a few books where the author chats like this says how he person feels at one moment and skips to the past then back again with such descriptives as you do I love those authors and you are one I don’t love you just to be clear lol I love this write well done bravo 👏 ps was it fiction or is it true to your life ??

[Julie McCarthy (juliesp..]

Hi I started this read with great gusto and enthusiasm but an early delivery guy came and now I’m onto my second coffee I’ll read again from start
From
What little I’ve read I love it stay tuned

[alanwgraham]

You have a great command of English Sam but on reading this chapter I find that you are trying too hard to make the writing too sophisticated, clever and witty. I must admit that I found quite a lot of it too opaque and hard to decipher, even after several readings. For me the purpose of writing is to communicate and to this end clarity of expression is paramount. I make loads of mistakes but I do put a lot of effort into reading and rereading my stories to make the meaning as clear as possible. I don't think this is the same as dumbing down. One specific comment is that you said that you and your sisters were three when your dad divorced. I presume you weren't quads!
I look forward to hearing from you.
All the best,
Alan

[alanwgraham]

You have a great command of English Sam but on reading this chapter I find that you are trying too hard to make the writing too sophisticated, clever and witty. I must admit that I found quite a lot of it too opaque and hard to decipher, even after several readings. For me the purpose of writing is to communicate and to this end clarity of expression is paramount. I make loads of mistakes but I do put a lot of effort into reading and rereading my stories to make the meaning as clear as possible. I don't think this is the same as dumbing down. One specific comment is that you said that you and your sisters were three when your dad died. I presume you weren't quads!
I look forward to hearing from you.
All the best,
Alan

[Delmar Cooper]

" I feel the inclination to stick with the roots of my intrigue as a reader, writer and learner." I hope I am in the neighborhood when you explain what this means.

"Postman" Chapter One.
Pity me, I am only a reader and lack any insight my writer, Sam, has on the material gifted to me in this chapter. My failing as a reader is my reliance on the straight line. I made the jump from the testator's office to the airplane but afterwards became disoriented. There was no real sheep on the train, was there? I think what I am trying to suggest here is some readers, like me, need defined transitions when my guide, the narrator, changes her mind about the topic of her narration.

There are many fine lines of writing in your chapter. I wish I had written; "She took the dog." My comments don't deal with talent, my comment deals with rewriting for the ease of the reader. Perspiration not inspiration is the lacking element.

I have read the other comments, most are gratifying but meaningless praise, but a few will benefit you and are worth study. Don't write off JayG on his attitude. He is after all the only one who showed you the em dash correction.
Good Luck

[Dilan Gray]

I love this story. You create such vivid images for the reader and the way you write has a wonderful flow to it.

[letroit]

It is a very good read really enjoyed it.

[roarke]

Hi Sam, thanks for the message. I don’t know if I can help, I’m very much a student of writing. One thing I struggle with is process, the process of writing, creating the story, editing, rewriting, construction/deconstruction, etc. I have a couple comments, but their effectiveness would depend on how many drafts you’ve done to this point.

first, I’d consider how you broke your narrative up into paragraphs…to me, paragraphs provide two main functions, clarity of narrative, and/or starting a new train of thought,narrative,scene…BUT, using too many paragraphs, can detract from the story, in other words have the opposite effect. I found when reading your chapter, that I might have kept some paragraphs tied to the previous paragraph…having said that, it might mean a total rewrite, because restructuring the paragraphs can change the flow of your story or add or detract emphasis from the form you have here.

My second suggestion is to read your story aloud. You can even record it and then play it back and listen to it as if you were the audience and not the writer. This technique provides tons of insight to your writing, especially if much of the story is still in your head, and not on the page. As you listen, ask questions. Why did the character say that? What was their reason for doing such and such? Does my narrative have a linear flow or does it jump around? Should I add sensory elements to my scenes… etc.

I offer these suggestions, because I think your writing and your story are well worth it. Bottom line, write and write some more. Good stuff.

[Cherrie Palmer]

Your story is filled with life and a family dealing with grief.
You have the frame work for a good story.
A few of your sentences are awkward. (I do that also) read each sentence aloud. Smooth out what you have already written then go back and dress the room. Personalize your characters. Add in a little color sound and or aroma.
The better your world the better your connection to the reader.

[Jenni Bailey]

I love the detail. You put a lot of thought and expression into it! Great work!