A letter from our state’s Department of Jobs and Family Services arrived at our address on Tuesday. The addressee is likely a former resident whose forwarding service has expired. We have, after all, lived in the house for almost two years.
I meant to take the letter with me to work on Wednesday. It was stamped “RETURN SERVICE REQUESTED.” I assumed it was something official, something important. The person for whom it was intended should get it.
I forgot to pick it up off the shelf when I grabbed my purse yesterday morning. I had taken the time to get online and find out that Philip wouldn’t be going to school due to a two-hour delay, so I felt I was a bit behind schedule. I was in a hurry to go.
When I got home from work, the letter had been moved to the kitchen counter. I didn’t recognize it at first.
And then I did.
The envelope wasn’t the only victim of a black marker. The quilt we keep on the couch was also adorned with stick figures, lines and numbers.
I sheepishly took the letter to the post office this morning. The postal worker chuckled and said she would take care of it.