Joe McGreevy was a familiar sight, cycling around the neighbouring areas of Ramoe in Northern Ireland. With a cheery wave and a jaunty air he was the people’s favourite person first thing in the morning. Being the village postman, Joe took his position as Communication Officer very seriously indeed, and in forty years service, rain, hail or snow he had been missing only once. That was when he lost his beloved wife Edith to cancer some years past. The light had gone out of his life and he didn’t believe he could function anymore. But the good people of Ramoe requested his return and Edith would not have wanted him to disappoint them. So Joe donned his well worn uniform once more.

That was why, on this particular Tuesday morning, the residents of Crombie Avenue were puzzled. Joe was late. He was never late. Was he sick? Did he have an accident? Should they call the hospitals? He wasn’t just their postman, he was their friend and they worried about him. But there was no need as around the corner came Joe on his trusty steed, just fifteen minutes late.. His customers breathed a collective sigh of relief and returned to their morning rituals.

Joe swung his sack jauntily over his shoulder and whistled merrily. He was in a particularly happy mood this morning.

“This is my last delivery, only three letters and I hang up my mailbag forever. I’ll miss my good friends but there is a place waiting for me, has been for a while.”

Three letters but three very, very important ones. Letters to make or break a person’s life and Joe had to deliver them. He sighed, because he knew the contents, knew the news, bad or otherwise that he was bringing to lifelong friends. They lay at the bottom of his sack, two sparkling, bright, white envelopes sending out rays of love and hope. But the other writhed and hissed like a black serpent, coiling and uncoiling with no apparent shape, emitting noxious fumes from Joe’s bag.

The first delivery was to Old Mrs Carruthers in No. 36, it would lift her spirits no end. She had been so lonely since her husband died, a part of her gone with him.  Her only son, now married to a beautiful wife, emigrated to Australia and were now the proud parents of a bonny baby girl. She had seen photos and videos, had spoken to them on the phone, couldn’t be doing with those new fangled Internet thingies. Now they were coming home. Derek, her son having found a new home and a new job here. They would be with her again. Joe smiled as he sensed the joy that would flood the old lady’s heart. His thoughts drifted to young Mrs Hughes at No. 26, his next visit. Widowed at the early age of thirty, she was the Mother of two precious little girls. Harry, her husband suffered a fatal accident at work and Jane missed him so much every single day. A devoted couple, the loss was devastating to everyone in the village. The sparkling letter in Joe’s bag promised hope and a new life for Jane and the children. An invitation to a party, where Joe knew she would meet a nice man who would become her second husband, a man who would love and cherish the girls as if they were his own. Joe’s heart glowed with happiness. He was nearly home. Just one more letter. His spirits sank as he felt the evil thing writhing and squirming in his sack. He gazed heavenwards and sighed.

“Is this absolutely necessary?” he pleaded

But he knew it had to be done. With dragging steps he approached the gate of No. 54, the home of Mr. and Mrs. Roberts. Their son Thomas was serving in Iraq, had been for almost three years. He was due home soon, his tour completed. It was not going to happen. Tommy and two of his friends had been shot and killed two days before by insurgent rebels. The news had filtered through to his Mom and Dad about the tragedy but no names had been released until now. They had lived in limbo for forty eight hours. Now their unbearable grief would start.

Joe wept for them but he knew that  Tommy was happy and he swore that by some means, with a little help, he would deliver that message. His duty was done here now, his last post round completed. He deserved a rest and Edith had promised that he would have one.

“Joe, it’s time. Your place is ready. Your friends and family are waiting and a new friend, Tommy thanks you for your concern for his parents. You will meet him soon. Take my hand, Dear, we have to go.”

Joe turned towards the brightness, towards a shining light emitting rays of love, peace and contentment and gazed into his beloved wife’s eyes.

The news spread rapidly through the village that day. Joe Ramsey had been found  lying peacefully at home, having suffered a massive heart attack. The delivery of the three letters was never explained.