The river runs truer now that the water has gone down. The bridge will get its new bolts. The school bus will be replaced by one with a higher intake and better tires. The rest of us have our assignments. June’s class fills every first Saturday. Doc’s dummies wear out from practice, which is the best way for anything to age. Rook keeps a coil of rope in his grocery cart like a neighbor might ask for a knot between cereal and milk. Luke reads to first graders on Thursdays—picture books about bridges and boats and dogs that find their way home. He sits cross-legged on a tiny rug and turns pages with hands that know how to lift weight and, just as importantly, how to set it down.
Sometimes, on my route, I see Zoe and Liam outside the school. Liam tips an invisible cap; Zoe points to her ear and then to the world, a reminder: listen. I honk the small horn on the truck and think about how the mail always gets through, not because it’s heroic, but because it’s ordinary. Most of the good work is.
