How many mornings did someone get up because they knew you would come?

How many boxes did you empty, how many butterscotches did you leave, how many hermits did you let be seen without being spoken to, how many drowning young mothers did you throw a sideways rope, how many old men lived because you noticed the mail?

By that measure — the only one I’ve ever trusted — I was rich beyond counting, and I amounted to a very great deal, and so does anyone who ever quietly became the reason another person was not alone.

I drove a mail truck down a gravel road for thirty-one years.

I was the one who came.

Set that in whatever column you like.

I know now what it was worth.

THE END.