Our mailbox sits on the side of the road. It's battered, probably from being hit by snow plows, passing cars and maybe even a baseball bat. Kids do that to mailboxes in the country sometimes. Dented as it is, it still serves its purpose. Each day, I walk out to get the junk mail, catalogs and occasional useful mailing.
One day last week, I walked out to get the mail and saw a small bird on the road. Dead, it had either flown into or was hit by car. It hadn't been there earlier, when the dogs and I went for our walk. In the hour before, its life had come to an end.
Coming back to the house, I planned to get a shovel and move the bird off the road. I put the mail on the table and started out the door when a loud boom of thunder sounded and the rain began. I didn't go back out.
It wasn't until the next morning when I went to the mailbox again that I saw the bird was gone. Not a trace remained. Perhaps one of nature's scavengers helped the rain clean up. We'll never know.
I mourned for the little bird. I hoped it had a happy life. I realized that if the timing had been different, its death would have remained a secret. No one would have felt a sense of loss. Or celebrated its life. But, I knew. This one little bird will not be forgotten.
