Critique, anyone?

Okay, apparently I deleted the post or something the first time, so here we go again. This is a short story I wrote a few months ago. Any suggestions, opinions, or criticism is very welcome and much desired. Say what you think. It isn’t very long, so I’m just going to put it right here.

The Mailbox
R. J. Wordsmith

I am an old, worn out mailbox. My life has been both good and long. It all started many years ago, hen the house I sand in front of was newly built. A young couple who were newly married (a lot of people seemed to be doing that for some reason) had just moved in. She was Laurie and he was Ralph. They were very happy together, and well I remember the day they painted their last name on my side. A lot of ‘Congratulations’ letters in colored envelopes came in, and for a few day I felt nearly bursting from the joyful torrent of well-wishes.

Then one day an official typed letter with a government stamp on it arrived. Laurie came out to get the mail, humming a song as she often did. Unlike other letters, some of which made her sigh or smile or even scowl, this one made her sad. She stopped humming and I heard her whisper “Oh Ralph,” in a broken sort of voice before hurrying inside.
The next morning Ralph came outside carrying a suitcase, followed a moment later by Laurie. They came down the walk from the house to where a taxi was waiting on my right. The two said Goodby to each other, and she cried. Then Ralph got into the Taxi and it drove away. Laurie waved and looked heartbroken for a few moments after the car disappeared, then she took a deep breath and dried her tears as best she could. That afternoon a blue star was hung in the window.

Around that time things got very busy. Laurie went out quite a lot to tin-drives and Red Cross and other things she would get invitations for. Sometimes she made casseroles and took them to other families with blue stars who lived in the neighborhood. Then she would get a sort of despairing look in her eyes, but it was always shaken off. There were happy days too, the ones when letters from places like England or France would arrive. Laurie would hug them close, smiling like a sunrise, and begin to read them before she even got into the house.

Then came a very bad day. A telegraph man biked up to the house and delivered a message. I don’t know what it said, however it must have been awful, for Laurie sank down on her knees and sobbed right there on the porch after reading it. The blue star was switched for a gold one, people brought casseroles, and she dressed in dark colors.
Time passes swiftly, and one day Laurie received a teacher’s certificate in the mail. Things were happier then, during summer and Christmas vacation the children would send letters. This always made her smile, though not so much like a sunrise as she used to. It didn’t seem long to me, but I am only a mailbox, so I was surprised when she sent in a letter of resignation to the school. Laurie’s hair was now streaked with white, and there were smiley wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. Letters from doctors came a lot then, and little rattly packages too. She would sit on the porch reading, and passersby would wave and say “Hello,” sometimes.

A few days ago Laurie did not sit on the porch. Instead, black car pulled up in front of the house and several men in dark clothes went in. When they came out they were carrying a long, brown box. I haven’t seen Laurie since. Yesterday a sign that says “Condemned” was stuck in the ground next to me. I wonder what it means. Oh well, perhaps a letter will arrive tomorrow, none seem to arrive anymore.
The End