The Pearl White Mailbox 

Kyra Pappas 

The pearl white mailbox perched upon the corner of someone’s beach house. The same beach house that families would visit summer after summer. It was the kind of place where you could smell newborn flowers growing into old crippling ones. Where kids would go from being five years old and swimming all day to having their own five-year-olds, teaching them how to swim. A place where you can see, feel, hear, and almost taste happiness. You can envision the waves crashing and feel the salt drying within your hair. The feeling of freshly burnt cheeks and watching the sun slowly fall down until the stars come out and light up the sky. Finally getting the feeling of washing the sunscreen off your tender body and untangling your salty intertwined hair. Only to wake up the next day and smell freshly made pancakes and cut strawberries, knowing the pearl white mailbox would still be perched upon the corner.