"Charlie, we don't touch other peoples' mailboxes." Charlie's weight falls back on his heels. His arms rest at his sides. He eyes me indignantly as I make up the ten yards he has pulled ahead of me on the sidewalk.

A swarm of gnats hovers into the air space in front of my face. I disturb their formation with a hand swipe.

"But I want to!" Charlie protests.

I feel compelled to explain my reasoning. "It's a Federal crime."

Charlie is mute the next few carefully placed steps down the sidewalk past the black mailbox. Hammering sounds emerge from a house up the street.

"It's a Federal CRIME," he says drawing out the term crime. A narrow rivulet has appeared where the sidewalk meets the road, the result of a poorly aimed sprinkler head.

"It's a FEDERAL crime," he repeats with an emphasis on the word federal.

"We don't touch other peoples' MAIL-boxes." Charlie continues with his head down. A car speeds up the hill. The driver sees us and slows. Charlie stops.

"Daddy?"

"Yes?"

"It's a Federal crime to touch other peoples' mailboxes."

"Yeah. I know."