In a contest for the most influential weapon of all time, paper would be the unsung hero. Guns, knives and nuclear bombs changed lives in a drastic way, but nothing held a candle to paper. It couldn’t kill thousands of people at one time, but it sentenced that number to death every day. Bad news is never quite so bad when its written down. Unless of course, you were the one reading it. These were the thoughts flowing through Toms mind as he read the fine computer generated font on the plainest of white paper.
Nothing about this single piece of paper was special, but it hit him in the chest like a sludge hammer, forcing the air from his chest like water crushing a drowning victim. Tom pulled a silver and gold pen, with his name engraved along its length, from his desk and signed. With the flick of his wrist he was free.
He looked around the dimly lit room. The long gray tables with sorting and processing machines were in the exact place they always were. Dirty white trays and tubs with the basic bold lettering of “United States Postal Services” was painted along the sides of each. How many of those had passed through his facility? How many letters and packages had he touched with his two hands over the past thirty-five years? How many confessions of love, dear john letters, get-well cards, job applications and school applications passed through his hands? How many lives changed from the contents of those letters?
His hands shook as he slid his letter of recognition into a plain white envelope and sealed it.
“I slide this into my bag and no one would ever know. I could show up on Monday and everything would be fine.” The word “fine” echoed in his mind. Six months ago life was “fine”. Three months ago life was “fine”, but “fine” was no longer a valid word to define his life.
Tom gathered his things, through the strap of his satchel over his shoulder and shuffled through the dim work area. He didn’t need the light, he knew the exact location of every piece of furniture and equipment. Out of habit his hand reached inside his pocket.
The letter fell lightly to the ground. Tom squatted to pick it up when his eyes caught the glimmer of a laminated sign. It read, “DEAD Letters”. It was a graveyard for the letters who had no home. For one reason or another they couldn’t be delivered to their destination, or returned to their sender. They had no where to go so they would just sit and gather dust. Every so often the letters were shipped off to another warehouse only to sit and gather more dust.
It was a sad life to live. To be set on a mission to accomplish a single task, and never reach your destination. To sit in a warehouse and gather dust. A spark fired in Tom’s mind as he realized the connection between the DEAD Letters and himself. His shoulders hunched even further to the ground as his lips drew into a tight thin line.
Before he knew what he was doing, his hand snatched a letter from the dirty white tray and was tearing away the seal. Eyes behind large gold-rimmed glasses darted to the first line and stopped. He paused, glanced around, and then began to read. Ten minutes later, Tom was outside the post office lighting up his first cigarette as a retired man.
Mile 29 