with post boxes built into the exterior walls,
one – P.O. Box 242,
in the top-centre row of the wall facing the side road –
my father rented for his entire life since as far back as my memory,
which he would check daily, as if it had to be checked,
encouraging me to try to open while growing up in the 70s
from needing to be lifted to standing on tiptoe and reaching it,
which was to me the address I wrote
on envelopes of letters for home when living abroad in the 80s
to inform about address change, acceptance to university, first love,
which was stubbornly used as the address to receive exam results
even when I was thousands of miles from home,
but only few miles from the campus where I went daily,
which has been providing generations of my family
with a treasure of memories and experiences over decades.