Postman, Postman

There is something fascinating about receiving letters.  I know that most communication these days is e-mail, texting or twitter, how sad! No more, will we have bundles of love letters, tied up with faded ribbon, to be read years later. These electronic communications will also never be scented, never have touched the hand of the corresponder and never be tear-stained. Alas!!

Yesterday I referred to a post about the possible obsessions of postmen or post people. The idea swirled around in my head all day. I thought of plot lines for novels – mystery, romance, others…..

Here are a few of my ideas.

1. A postman delivers letters regularly to a home. He senses that they may be “love letters.” On one occasion he meets the recipient. He becomes infatuated with her. He starts intercepting her letters, opening them and then substituting his own letters. Not exactly a Cyrano de Bergerac, but a tortured soul.

2. Mystery twist – perhaps this same postman decides to murder the sender of the letters. He is now the sole corresponder. He plans a meeting with the recipient……

3. Romance twist. Maybe there are no letters initially delivered to a home, where the postman has fallen in love with the “resident.” He begins delivering letters to her. They are friendly, at first, however, he really is a magnificent writer. She falls in love with his “soul.” She asks the postman to try and trace the sender…..

Please add any plot lines you may have.

A Letter

I love this poem by W. B. Yeats – substitute the word “letter” for “book” in the second line and you will see why it is so sad to lose all those letters.

WHEN YOU ARE OLD

WHEN you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;

How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;

And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

Have a thoughtful day.