I’d never expected to lose nearly everyone I loved by the time I was twenty-five.
I felt the grief rise again as I parked in front of the small, nondescript post office in Pollocksville. The three-hour drive from my apartment in Durham had seemed more like six as I made a mental list of all the things I needed to do once I reached New Bern, and that list segued into thinking of how alone I felt. But I didn’t have time to dwell on my sadness.
The first thing I had to do was stop at this post office, ten miles outside of