Waiting

I wake up late and sense the light outside my window. I jump out of bed and rush to the blinds, blinking at the snow in my front yard. Nope, no footprints yet. I get back in bed. But I can't sleep. I'm too excited.

So I get back out of bed and check the fresh snow for prints, just once more. I get ready for the day. When I finish, I run to the front door and peer anxiously down the street, first one way, then the other. Nothing.

I sit down to read a book. But I can't focus. I give in to the urge, my patience shaking its head in defeat. I put on my shoes and open the front door. I run lightly to the mailbox, heart pounding in anticipation. Empty. Still no footprints in the yard, a sure sign in the winter that the mailman has yet to come. I walk the extra few steps down the sidewalk and check both directions. No mail truck.

So I go back inside, put on my slippers, and resign myself to waiting a bit longer. I read some. I get some things crossed off my to do list. There's movement outside the window. Sure enough, the mail lady in her winter boots is tromping through the snow.

I skip the shoes this time and run out barefoot, hardly daring to look inside the mailbox. I lift the lid and see newspaper. Just newspaper. I watch the mailman a couple houses down, just in case she's coming back with a forgotten letter. She's not. My shoulders slump just a little. And my feet are cold.

I take the paper inside. I rifle through it, just in case it's hiding something special inside its inky folds. Nothing but a couple of coupons to Jiffy Lube and Big O Tires. I set the paper down and put my slippers back on. The pile of newspaper taunts me.

I glance at the clock. Twenty-four hours until the mail comes again.