Without fail, love notes and grand epistles from friends arrive in my mailbox exactly when I need them. It's a mysterious thing. Perhaps in order to become a postal worker you must have psychic abilities that allow you to know when people need a little bit of extra special love, because the amount of time it takes for a letter to traverse the country seems to vary greatly from one letter to another. I have visions of the postal workers hoarding letters, waiting for that particular moment when they suddenly know that whoever those pieces of wonderfulness are addressed to needs them most.