Cori
Personal. On purpose.
Cori remembers the days that matter to your people. Suggests gifts and cards. Asks for final approval by email. Sends what you chose.
Today, a text reminder.
In time, the record of all the moments you showed up.
Most of what we mean to do for the people who matter never gets done.
Not from indifference. From the simple fact that life moves quickly, and the small acts that compose a life — the call before a birthday, the note after a kindness, the card that arrives on the right morning, the check-in after the loss — fall through the days. Cori closes that gap.
Four texts and you're set up.
Tell Cori about your people.
Names. Days that count. A few details. Over text, the way you'd tell a friend.
Cori sends a reminder before the date.
A week ahead. A nudge if you didn't answer. Never on the day itself — too late.
You answer in your own words.
"Flowers." "A book she'd like." "Something thoughtful, under $80." Cori gathers options.
Approve by email. The merchant ships.
Purchase links to merchants you'd choose anyway. A card preview with your note. Approve and it goes.
Small acts. Year after year.
Cori carries the calendar so you can carry the people. The ones you've decided matter.
Day to day, by text. At year's end, by letter.
At year's end, Cori sends you a small written letter — names, acts, in your own words. The year you were there, returned to you in writing.
Print it. Save it. Pass it on. Year after year, a small binder of the people who mattered — yours to keep.
Here is your year.
In February, the gift card to Eleanor at the bookshop — for knowing your name for seven years. In May, your father's seventieth — the Hamilton, restored. For seventy years of getting where you needed to be.
In May, Kristin's birthday — the Ondaatje she'd been looking for, with a note in your hand. In June, Marcus, two weeks into recovery — a check-in, just to say you saw him.
In August, Sarah's mother. A note, sent the week after. In October, flowers to the hospital the morning Daniela's daughter was born.
That is what you did this year. You were there.
Many merchants. Real names.
Cori doesn't stock or markup. The link in your email goes to the merchant. You pay them directly.
Cori does not stock; Cori coordinates.
People who know your name without knowing your number.
The barista, the concierge, the vet tech, the stylist, the teacher. Cori generates a private claim link as a QR code.
Show it on your phone, or AirDrop it. They scan or accept, redeem, and never see your number. Your name on the gift. Your number stays yours.
Cori stays steady when it matters most.
No urgency theater. No suggested phrasings about loss. Cori names what you said, and acts on what you asked.
The terms, plainly stated.
A serious commitment kept on your behalf.
Yours.
Cori works for you. The subscription is the contract.
How we're paid.
Your subscription pays for the service. Partners pay us referral fees when you buy through Cori — never added on top of your price. You pay what the merchant charges.
Time-aware.
Cori knows what each merchant needs to deliver on time, and works backward from the date that matters.
One package, when it fits.
Your note travels with the gift when it can — inside the flowers, with the gift card. One arrival. No two-step unboxing.
Yours to keep.
Your record is private. Yours — to keep and pass on.
One job, plainly defined.
Remember what you've shared. Suggest what to send. Record what you sent.
Cancel anytime.
The archive remains. A copy is yours on request.
or $300/year
- Unlimited reminders.
- All gifts at cost. No markup.
- One letter at year's end.
- Cancel anytime.
Begin.
Paid by you. Kept for you.
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