The Bureau of Dreams to be Continued by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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The Bureau of Dreams to be Continued
Page 325
The Merry Mailman
He was seventy-two, and sleep came like a slow tide these days; never crashing, just creeping in. That night, he drifted off with the faint hum of the dishwasher in the background and the scent of autumn leaves curling through the cracked window. And then, without warning, he was four.
The living room was smaller than he remembered, but brighter. The shag carpet was a golden sea, and the television; a boxy Zenith with faux wood paneling, glowed like a portal. He sat cross legged in his rocket ship pajamas, a bowl of Cheerios balanced precariously on his lap. His father was beside him, wearing a flannel robe and the kind of slippers that made a soft shuff-shuff sound when he walked.
On the screen, Ray Heatherton; the “Merry Mailman” himself; beamed with that unmistakable warmth, tipping his cap and singing the theme song that had once been the anthem of his mornings:
"I’m the Merry Mailman, I deliver the mail ..."
The song wrapped around him like a blanket. It wasn’t just the melody; it was the way his father hummed along, off key but committed, tapping his knee in rhythm. It was the way the