Donald Trump has never made an order from a seed catalog. He’s never sent in a Box Top or clipped an ad from a comic book. He’s never waited to see whether the mailman would bring a birthday card, or a valentine, or a letter from a friend. Never in his life has Donald Trump lingered near the window or hung around the lobby waiting for the mailman to approach. He’s never known the joy of seeing the postal worker pull open his mailbox and slip something inside. He’s never known the disappointment of seeing that carrier move past without pausing. Donald Trump does not know the sound that the mail truck makes as it comes along the road on a day when you’re waiting for—hoping for, aching for—news from a parent who is far away, or a friend who once was so close, or a child on the front lines.

And it goes both ways. Trump has never gone down to the post office with a package to be weighed and sent on its way to distant relatives. He’s never sat down in front of the TV and put stamps on a stack of Christmas cards. Never struggled to find a few words to add to a note of sympathy. He has never, not once in his whole life, raised the little red flag that means that he has something to mail to someone else.

Trump has no idea what the United States Postal Service does. Or what it means. For all his wealth, on this topic he is pitifully impoverished.