When we take off our heads and put them in the mailbox down the street the woman who lives there will go sometime to check her mail and find our smiling faces poking out at her. And with the white of our skin and the blue of the sky and the black that is her mailbox, its red flag waving, she will leap back and into the road, shocked as always at our behavior, you and me. She will gasp at our audacity. She will wonder at how we are raising one another. Or perhaps this woman that we have known to watch her own kids from her front porch, robe clad and staring, she won't be scared at all, won't jump back or marvel at us but will instead take our heads casually inside and write on our faces return to sender or not at this address and that will be that. Because there is always, when we are dealing with all the people beyond you or me, this notion of perhaps.