Narrative point of view for why you live at the PO by eudora welty?

The Post Office is my refuge. Not a refuge from the world, mind you, but a refuge within it. It's a place where the world unfolds, a slow, steady stream of human stories flowing in and out of my little corner. I sit here, hunched over my worn desk, and I see it all. The young man, face flushed with excitement, buying a stamp for a letter to his sweetheart. The old woman, eyes clouded with grief, sending a telegram to a distant child. The businessman, sharp and efficient, sending a package across the globe. Each one, a flicker of life, a whisper of a tale.

I've seen the joy of a soldier's homecoming, the despair of a farmer's crop failure, the nervous thrill of a first love. I've witnessed triumphs and tragedies, celebrations and sorrows, all played out in the quiet, rhythmic space of the Post Office. I am a witness to the human condition, a silent observer of the grand tapestry of life.

Some might call me a recluse, a lonely spinster stuck behind a counter. But I know better. I am a keeper of secrets, a confidante to the unseen. The Post Office is my window to the world, and I wouldn't trade it for all the grand estates in the world. For here, in the heart of this ordinary place, I find extraordinary beauty, a symphony of human connection that is both humbling and inspiring.

And as the day winds down, and the last customer walks out, I am left alone with the quiet hum of the sorting machine, a rhythmic heartbeat that echoes the steady pulse of life. And in that silence, I find peace, a quiet contentment that only comes from being a part of something much larger than myself, something that connects us all.