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I fully expect to be found lying dead at the base of my cluster mailbox one day soon. I collect my mail at the rise of dawn, and the temperature will be under 100 degrees for a few minutes. (I’m writing this in August)

I have no idea of what time of day the USPS truck will show up to collect the outgoing mail, but since I’ll be dead it won’t really matter.

My neighbors won’t notice me lying here. They will remain safely hidden in their air-conditioned homes. Coyotes have been spotted on our streets, but it will probably be too hot for those guys to come sniffing around. Requiescat in pace, Michael.

When I was in High School, our Principle, Brother Raymond, once showed us pictures of the bodies of his co-freres, lying dead on the floor of a church in the Philippeans. The heat in the church had built up over the days while Brother Raymond had hidden from the Japanese soldiers beneath the main altar in the church. The bodies of the dead Christian Brothers had swollen up and had burst through their cassocks in spots. It scared the shit out of us postulants.

If I were designing the cover of a paperback murder mystery novel describing my death by mailbox, it would picture an old guy in short pants (tan) and a white T-shirt, lying face up, sprawled out on the sidewalk.

My mailbox key would lie by my right hand. My left hand might be clutching my cellphone which I had just used to call 911 for an ambulance after having suffered a possible stroke. My shopping cart would be at my feet.

My life has been good. But my cluster mailbox finally did me in.