I've been a mail carrier in this military town for forty-one years. Same route, same streets, same faces.
There was a woman who lived on Birch Street, near the base gate. Every morning she'd be at her mailbox, holding a coffee mug, and she'd wave.
I never learned her name. I called her the lady with the wave. She had a red door and a little dog that barked at me.
On my last day, I saw her in the school pickup line. She was picking up her granddaughter. I slowed down and waved one final time.
She saw me in the postal truck and waved back. Big, full arm wave, like she knew it was goodbye.
I have a coin jar on my desk at home, half full of foreign currency. Coins from letters I delivered over the years — yen, pesos, euros, rubles. Every one a story.
That wave was a story too. We never spoke, but we greeted each other every single day.
I'm letting go of the route, but not that wave. Some goodbyes don't need names.