10 minutes left to go… 9 minutes….8...7...6 minutes, it’s getting close now...5 minutes, time is flying… 4...3...2 better go to the door, 1 minute left. I am bracing myself in the doorway as I look out into the desolate road.  This desolate road has so much character with its deep potholes and bumps. The average person would call it ugly, but I call it mine.
As the anxiety is reaching the top of my head, I start to hear the rattle of the mail cart against the empty road.  The walkway to my house is a calling to walk down it, but I ignore that calling as I sprint through my house to get my precious letter. The letter I wrote was sitting on my dusty old countertop, waiting to take an adventure to the frontline. I snatched it up into my hands and flew through the house expecting the mailman to be standing at my front door with a US stationery paper, sealed in a envelope. I wished for that paper, sealed in a US envelope, to be written on with caring words and hopeful good news.  I wished to open the paper and start crying tears of joy, to know my husband was okay, but only one can dream.
My vision becomes blurry as I search around for the mailman and his canvas cart. I no longer hear the eager, rattles of the wheels on the road. I don’t see the tiny mailman waiting for me to come receive my honorable letter. I look down the road and barely see a man walking with a white bag. I don’t have any doubts that, that is the mailman. I don’t waste any time and sprint down my lawn not caring about the soft whispers telling me to walk down the walkway.
My bare feet hit the unsmooth pavement. I felt no pain as the rocks get jammed in my feet.  The breath being sucked out my lungs, but I will not give up. A picture of my husband wanders into my mind. This motivation just makes my run faster feeling the urge to leap into the mail cart and search for the lost letters that could make me cry tears of joy.
As I am getting closer and closer I feel as if the mailman is getting farther away from me. The letter is starting to burn a hole through my hand, ready to succeed and take a risky trip. I am about 15 feet away and my lungs feel as if they have been filled with my fear of what is ahead of me. I start to slow down and look at my feet to see rocks and scratches all over them. I look up once again to see the worst, torturing sight I have ever seen.  My body has frozen in the road, as the mysterious man turns around to look straight at me.  This man, this sight, this moment played a trick on me. This picture contains me, a letter, and a man who wasn’t the mailman.