Tim the Postman

My letter carrier is the only person from before Covid who is still in my life in the same way. When I retired, he became the person I saw most often. And he still is.

Our relationship began this way. My living room is at the front of the house. I could hear him opening the mail boxes. I opened the front door once or twice after he had put the mail in my box. After that, he started knocking on the door so he could hand me the mail directly.

I learned that his name is Tim, which I find easy to remember since my cousin Tim was also a mailman before he retired. If I wasn’t home and Tim had a package for me, he would give it to a neighbor or put it somewhere safe and leave me a note written on the back of an envelope. We greet each other if our paths cross outside my home. When I caught him at his truck once, he remembered that he had a package for me and handed it to me. I give him a tip at Christmas.

Post-Covid, he still knocks on my door and hands me the mail, wearing no mask. His cheery smile is the last lingering piece of interpersonal normalcy in my life. All other encounters take place over the internet or from six feet apart.

I ran across him the other day while walking six feet from a friend; I hailed him “There’s my man Tim,” and we smiled at each other. I cherish his presence in my life, my last link to the old normal whose loss we all grieve.