I'd Like to Meet Viva

There is a mailbox that I pass every day. The bus pauses for a few seconds to let someone off at the house next door to the mailbox. It is the largest mailbox I have ever seen. It is black and decorated with varying sizes of white circle stickers. the pattern is perfect and original. In the smallest size of stickers, the name of the owner is spelled. All I can recall is Viva. I'd like to meet Viva.

First of all, it's a fun name, so I automatically assume she's a fun lady. And if she isn't exactly fun, she's got to be interesting. And if she isn't exactly interesting, she probably has a great life story. And if her life story isn't exactly great, there's got to be one little itty bitty thing I could learn from her. And I refuse to believe there isn't.

I've never seen Viva's house. Her driveway is long, to match the mailbox I assume, and disappears into trees. Therefore obscuring the house. If I could see her house, maybe I would know something about her; maybe I could infer some information about Viva. Alas, this method of acquiring details of Viva is a dead end.

When I picture Viva, she's an elderly lady, about seventy-five. She wears dresses everyday: plain comfortable shifts to keep her cool or warm, depending on the season. She reads in a window seat, the same way she did when she was twelve. When the sun comes through that window, a hint of Youth's beauty and frivolity brighten the spark in her eyes and redden her cheeks. Viva has wonderful stories, and they're all true. Every one is about a beautiful child, young woman, or lady who triumphs, and the best one of all is about a young soldier, a lovestruck soldier, and a promise to return.

Well, he came back. Viva and he were married. Forty years. Seven have gone by that she's spent without him. If you ever speak to Viva about those seven years, she would say they were longer than the rest. Longer, and colder, and emptier. She triumphed again though. She wakes each morning with Jesus and the sun, and her step is still strong and her voice doesn't break. Though she rarely does speak. Viva does not attend to many visitors, none actually. Three children, and eight children of those children. They don't call much anymore, or write. Viva understands though. Many things take precedence. She's content and happy that they are happy, whatever they may be doing.

I think Viva cries sometimes. Her thin shoulder's shake with her sobs, and her hankie fills with salt. But it's soon over and a hint of a laugh about to spill over from the corner of her mouth would tell anyone watching she's dwelling on much happier things.

I really would like to meet Viva. I'm sure she's nothing like my fantasy, but that wouldn't disappoint me. She must be a fantastic woman, to decorate a mailbox so well.