My grandfather delivered mail in East Nashville for thirty-one years.
He knew which dogs were friendly, which porches needed boards replaced, and which older folks waited near the window just to say good morning. At Christmas, people left him cookies wrapped in foil and cards with five-dollar bills he always tried to give back.
He was proud of doing a regular job well. No speeches, no big stories, just the same route in rain, heat, and those icy mornings Tennessee pretends it does not have.
He passed in 2018. I still look for him when I see a mail truck.