Mysterious Magazines

Dearest Rachel –

Well, your magazine arrived yesterday, like it always has every month for years on end.

We’ve never figured out where they came from, or who ordered them for us… or who’s paying for them.

Somehow I doubt it’s Bryan Hamilton.

I do have at least one conjecture. In your folks’ waning days, when you would go down to visit them for the better part of a week every month, you noted with some concern about how your mom was constantly filling out sweepstakes notifications and other get-rich-quick schemes. Stuff like the Publishers Clearing House and all that. I think it’s not out of line to suggest that – in an effort to supposedly increase her chances of winning – she ordered magazines for herself, as well as for you and Daniel. To this day, we continue to receive Better Homes and Gardens in her name, GQ and Sports Illustrated in his…

…and you would receive a copy of Cosmo every month, whether you wanted it or not.

And, as you can see, you still do.

I don’t know if you ever bothered to read any of them when you got them. All I can speak for is the fact that every since you’re gone, I’ve been putting them in the recycling bin almost immediately. After all, what’s the point? I’m not interested in the celebrity gossip, and their supposed tips for better sex are just mocking me at this point.

Do I sound a bit frustrated? I suppose I am. It’s bad enough I have no idea – or at least, barely the slightest idea – of where this is coming from. I also have no clue how to stop it, and what they have to offer is so tantalizingly out of reach that it just irritates me. I suppose that this might be how Dad feels sometimes, watching us eat at a restaurant while he’s stuck having to pour Glucerna into a gastric feeding tube. He may have come to terms (for now) with his situation, but I have yet to with mine.

I confess that I don’t have that much more to add about this little situation, so I suppose I might as well let you go for now. Besides, I need to get this stuff into the recycling bin while I’m thinking about it.

Take care of yourself, honey.

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I am Rachel's husband. Was. I'm still trying to deal with it. I probably always will be.

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