Last post for young love

Those conceived during World War II and still breathing, recall with fondness a colourful character and an essential part of suburban life. The postman.

Ours we named Possie; on his thick-framed bicycle cushioned on fat tyres, with huge leather bag overflowing with the day’s letters fixed to the handlebars. He miraculously negotiates pavements without getting off the bike, feeding the letters into post boxes attached to front gates. No high brick walls with razor wire then.

To me, the postman was someone special. Probably because he delivered my first love letter. From Yvonne in my Grade 5 class. Petite pigtailed blonde with a sexy lisp. Never shall I forget spotting the letter among the others. And it also caught Possie’s eye. Uneven letters written with pillar box red lipstick filling the square blue envelope with my details. I give it a fat kiss. Possie nods knowingly.

It was my job arranging the letters on the sideboard. With feverish haste I tear mine open, revealing a folded page torn from an arithmetic exercise book.

“Deer Cliffie, I luv you with all my hart. I hope you also luv me.” Spelling mattered naught. I write back, but as stamps were a luxury in a poor household, I have it hand-delivered from desk to desk in the classroom. But reaching Yvonne’s cute little hands, Mrs Fat Fingers van Vuuren intercepts the missive, reading it out loud.

“Deer Eevon, I lick you a lot, and I’m glad you licks me to.” I still feel my burning ears. After that, I saved every penny for stamps, so Piet Possie re-enters my life. Every day I’d await his arrival for more passionate prose from my darling.

Then alas, one day it ends. Yvonne falls for Dennis, the pimply, baby-faced weed. My last letter said it all: “I don’t lick you anymore, because Dennis licks you.” Again it didn’t reach her. My mom found it in my blazer pocket. The family laughed and laughed.

And I no longer waited for Possie. But he would’ve empathised, unlike his modern-day contemporary not privy to e-mails. In any case, romantic epistles sent per today’s PO snail mail would never reach love-starved recipients, causing rifts in relationships. RIP, Possie.

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