Saturdays Nevermore

The little boy missed his dad and he always heard the same.
“I promise son, this time I’m there, I’ll make it to the game."
So the little boy would eagerly wait, and sit, outside his house on a packed suitcase for the love of his life, the father who never came.

But there was a man who the boy admired, who showed up all the time, who would say things to make the boy feel good, and the boy felt first in line.

The boy had longed for someone to play and the man would even find time to stay, but only for just minutes, to throw the ball, or comment on the weather. Or, ask about the long summer’s day or what grade he’ll be at the start of fall.

And the little boy would smile.

And the man would smile.
And both would reinforce their mutual admiration if only for a while.

One afternoon the little boy, confused, said to his mother,

“Mr. Calvin comes and talks to me but daddy doesn’t bother.”
His mother then leaned down and gently said to him, “Mr. Calvin delivers letters, he goes from house to house and sometimes visits them.”

The little boy now understood, reached out, and grabbed his mother's hand,

“You know what, mommy? When I grow up, I want to be a mailman.”

To the men who visit more than some dads, they’ll miss you on Saturdays.