By eight the post office counter had a second, much quieter tray: a row of pillows no larger than the stamps themselves. Each envelope received one before the glue was asked to work. The clerk, who would not be hurried, tucked them in as if sending cousins off with a packed lunch.
We asked by the mailbox. A man with a grocery list said his postcard left looking taller, as if it had stretched. In the little notebook by the window someone had written that the red stamp slept longest, and that the postman should knock softly on the outgoing slot.
The pillows themselves are simple. They sit under the stamp, they keep the paper from feeling rushed, and they nod when a carrier says good morning. A day later the same woman came back with another letter, because yesterday the thank-you note had waved from the tray.