The magazine is called CURE, and it is devoted to cancer patients of the world unite. A solid mighty troupe of scattered souls that have stood up and looked their microscopic mutating cells right in the eye and said…stop or I’ll say stop again!
I don’t even work for this magazine, their department is down the hall, but somehow, I’ve been tasked with the opening of their mail. It happened when the woman I office with was distributing the mail, and I would always wish to know what the incoming roll of handwritten envelopes contained…well somebody took notice see…and the honor was bestowed upon me.

You might say I’ve always had ‘a thing’ for unopened, postmarked, hand-addressed, envelopes. Insatiable greed… Especially if a little lady in Roswell spent the time to put little seasonal stickers on the outside. (Lovin’ it Mrs. Rezak in Forest Hills, NY.)

Many of the envelopes contain little slips of addresses that the post office returns back to the magazine. They are forever pouring in, and I was forever dumping them in huge bins that I was told would one day empty to some processing center for deletion from the database. It was many weeks until I realized that many of those little slips belonged addresses who’s addressee was no more. The cure never came. There is a big stamp at the post office that says ‘deceased’, but that’s only for the small town postal worker hip to the double duty of town crier.

The nice part is the letters themselves…the lost art of personal letter writing. Usually, the on-line form requesting subscription is completed and sent in to me. Sometimes, a little note in scratchy writing says ‘Thank you for the informative magazine, God Bless.’ with an apology for the shaky hand,…’but ever since the chemo…’