Uncle Orell, 1924 - 2019, delivered 'postally' until he was 94. He is no longer on his route, but by his faithful walking all those years he has delivered his tonnage of mail to our doors. As he lay declining in his hospital bed, it was my pleasure to match shouts with him, and be one of his last caregivers to hold his large hands.
Years before it was fashionable, whenever I was out walking, I would always take my earbuds out as I approached a mail carrier and say, "Thank you for delivering our mail." Now, in this estranged spring when our living is somewhat abrogated, I suppose it would be more apropos to say something like, "Thank you for touching out mail." And, additionally, from a personal me, I could offer an apology for borrowing, without copyright permission, the phrase 'Post Delivery' for use as title to the final chapter of my next book.
Indeed, I could say even more in line with our current flood of thanksgiving, because it is my half-century-old contention that, especially today in this new pan-season of dying, 'Motherhood', the counter-assurgency of all life-taking and death theories, could use a few deserved accolades too; for without these Morning Stars of Math throughout the millennial ages of our past, there would be no children, fathers, or medical PhD's to love, care for, or mourn. 5-10-2020.—Dumas fils