537 59828

montana 59828 – 2013

I took a trip to another land, and the number was there.

There came a time when I received a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to see someplace new, to live surrounded by nature, away from the asphalt and concrete jungle I’d grown up in. And I took it. I caught a flight and arrived at night. We drove down a dusty stretch of road, an hour from the airport. This road, and particularly this mailbox, was the last landmark before our driveway.

The next morning, on our way into town for supplies, I was floored to see the mailbox in full daylight. The number 537 was there, just yards from the entrance to the place that would be my home for the next five years. It became a sly reminder each time we drove into town—a silent callback to my name, LES, flipped upside down. Each time I passed by it, we exchanged knowing looks; or, if an inanimate box could look, it would have. It spoke volumes without saying a word. Or maybe it’s just a coincidence, carrying meaning only because I’ve imbued it with significance. If I had chosen any other name to write on the walls, that number and that mailbox would have meant nothing to me.

If.

I chose the name LES, in my late teens, and it didn’t take long for me to see the letters hidden in plain sight in my alarm clock. it was neatly spelled out there for me. 5:37 flipped vertically.

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