In response to The Daily Post’s writing prompt: “A Dog Named Bob.”
Robert Parr is dead.
But the mailman doesn’t know this. Neither do the letter senders, the former of which continue to pile up inside the mailbox. After all, the mail never stops. Not even for the rain. The mailbox is old and rusted by now. The hand painted blue jay no longer visible, except for a small sliver of the tail. It’s no longer completely waterproof. The hints of rain droplets falling through the cracks and onto the hand written letters. The ink in several letters has begun to run. Staining the congregated pile with red, blue and black tears. The most recent letter has yet to be damaged. Its contents are written in blue crayon. It’s a painstakingly personal drawing of a large plate piled high with pancakes. The syrup running down the sides of the stack and onto the plate. The thought bubble above the stack asks how Bob likes his new chew toy.
The letter is signed “Carolyn Parr, 5 years old”.