Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated December 31

December 31, 1999
Katrina,



I could have sworn that I saw a ghost today, waiting for me at the bottom of the staircase like a long lost friend, waiting for me as if we were going somewhere. It was you, Sister, there at the bottom of the staircase with that secretive grin and charming smile, those sparkling eyes, waiting for me and laughing like we were sneaking out of the house before anyone noticed. Then, you vanished as if you had never been there at all.



My hand is weak as I hold the pen, and the ink shall not much longer stain the paper. I’ve wondered today what you think of my letters, my attempt to leave a legacy of knowledge or, at least, what knowledge I’ve gained over the years. Do you hear me, Sister, my thoughts to leave something good behind? Has it been worth the effort?



The letters I’ve written to you have piled high on the corner of this desk, the paper faded somewhat by the sunlight brightening their place in this old world. Yet, I’ve continued to write these letters that have never been mailed, writing the words I wish that I had written or said to you before Heaven took you from me nearly ten years ago; words I wish I had said in a time when you were still able to tell me of your heart, in a time when I could show you that I’m changing, learning. With each letter I hope that, somehow, the words will find their way to your heart. Perhaps I’m hoping to right some wrongs with these words, confessions in black and white; and, when I’m gone, I hope these words will find their way to a heart like mine once was, a heart waiting at the crossroads and deciding which path to take, hoping that these letters will lead them down the road of hope.



People often ask what they would do if they had only six months to live, a limited amount of time on this Earth to be alive. But, time is always limited, Sister, and waiting can bring about regret because it is far too easy for one to wait too long. I knew that the moment that they told me you were gone. But, I’ve done what I could to make amends, trying to heal relationships with those few souls that are still living, giving, trying to keep my heart open, trying to allow hope to guide each day, to guide my thoughts, and trying to find a way to help others not to make the same mistakes I’ve made. Is it enough?



How will I be remembered or will I be forgotten, I wonder as I look out from behind this protective desk, through the window, and across a field, vacant except for the rays of sunshine dancing on a cold morning. It is the last day of the year, the eve of a new millennium and the winter of a life.



I must go now, my body tires and my spirit is calling me home. And, deep within, I hear you calling to me, I feel the lightweight feather of hope writing upon my heart, and I see the light of home.










This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.

Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated December 30

December 30
Katrina,



Ten years now I’ve written almost daily, as often as I’ve been able, trying to reach out and make up for lost time. Has it been worth the effort? Our birthday nears, a milestone of great significance this time. Will we celebrate it together, Sister? The hourglass empties, did we make use of our years or did we waste the gifts we were given?



I have made some peace with being unable to change the past, a process that continues on; but I am still questioning your heart over all of the years we could have known one another, years that I stayed away, jealous of the love you had, the life you knew, angry that I never knew the same, refusing to see my responsibility to my own happiness.



Can you ever forgive me, Sister, for all the times I wasn’t there for you, the birthdays, the holidays, the anniversaries, the good times, the bad; when Robert died, his heart unable to withstand news of his son going to fight in a world war; when your son returned home to you safely; when your daughter married, and when you became a grandmother? All of the years without contact, did you think of me? Did you miss your sister, or had my anger towards you already driven you so far away that I never crossed your mind, dead to you except, perhaps, for the memories of two children, dressed alike, running through the countryside?



Can you sense how much it pains me to write these words, Sister? Words can never express the regret that I feel over those years. Can you ever forgive me, Sister? Is it even fair of me to speak of repentance and crave absolution?



That first letter to you, written almost ten years ago, mourning the loss of our time together, asked what sentence would be proportionate to my actions, asked how I could make amends. Yet, no letter returned. Now, I know of no other way to try then to leave this legacy of knowledge, a lesson to others not to make the same mistakes I made, a lesson to always hold on to hope.



No cost to me could ever equal the pain I’ve caused, what I’ve lost. Don’t you agree?



Deepest regrets, Sister,
Forever,
Christina







This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.

Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated December 29

December 29
Katrina,



And what of death, Katrina? Is death a mansion of silver and gold with a crystal roof so that the sun can shine in with its glory, mansions that serve as beautiful prisons that are comforting but inescapable? Is death like the wind, souls set free to fly about gently on the breeze like invisible birds gliding through the air and able to see the beauty of the Earth, to feel the warmth of the Sun? Is death final, a soul ceasing to exist, a life terminated without future thought or feeling? Is death a transition, a soul able to retain our memories, our regrets, our love, and our dreams but becoming unable to do anything about them as we wait for Heaven or Hell or another lifetime of opportunity?



When it is my time to die, Katrina, will I know you? Will we be able to sit, laugh, or view the beauty of Eden? Is it possible to turn back the clocks of lifetimes and, at death, return to two young children, unseen by the living, running through fields of wildflowers, happy and carefree, protected by hope from sorrow?



Is death a review of life, our successes and failures replayed back to us as if life had been a moving picture, each moment filmed for truth, for accuracy, for teaching? Will we remember forgotten treasures, and will we be shown events as they really were and not as we recall them? Will we be shown the lives of others, moments replayed to show us the joy, the relief, the love, the heartbreak that we gave to them?



Is death to be feared, a walk into the unknown that we must each take alone, separated from another life here on Earth? Is death something to look forward to, a time of indescribable peace within the soul, a place where we are met with open arms by angels we knew as mortals here on Earth?



After death, do souls become guardians of the living, returning to Earth in a new and spiritual form to whisper hope into souls and to lead lives away from despair? Are there angels amongst the living now, trying to help, trying to heal? I believe there are.



Katrina, can you hear me? Can you hear my voice in these words?



Sisters forever,
Christina








This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.

Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated December 28

December 28
Katrina,



Time is winding down for me, Sister, and with each tick of the clock I wonder how many more chimes I will be granted. I feel, in my heart, that I shall never again see spring, and have found myself at night dreaming of its beauty, its birth, while I am soothed by the protective arms of winter.



Is this the winter of my life, a transitioning to whatever waits ahead? Did I wait too long to recognize my mistakes or is recognizing them enough for solace, forgiveness? Katrina? Can you feel, one sister to another, how my heart aches for the errors I’ve made, the hearts I’ve broken, the time I’ve wasted? Is it too late to summon home the ghosts of my turmoil that I have cast upon others? Is it too late to whisper love and peace to all whom I’ve known?



If those wishes that come from the deepest part of the heart and soul can come true simply by determined thoughts, Sister, then I wish on this world an erasure of any pain I’ve caused. I wish that peace fall upon those I have known to replace any discontent I have sewn. I wish that order would come to those whose lives I’ve caused disruption. I wish that mending would come to hearts I’ve broken. I wish to return to me the ghosts of negativity and cast upon the world the ghosts of peace and hope and joy and love.



Yes, Sister, love. Sitting here at this window, in this house of hope, looking over the fields in my old age and remembering the past, I think I have finally learned what love is.



Sisters always,
Christina







This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.

Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated December 13

December 13
Katrina,



Forgiveness, Sister, is a complex web made of emotions, various people holding a corner and sending requests along sticky wires, survival depending on the connections it makes.



At the top of the web is God, the first name we speak when trouble we begin to sense. Yet, he has no physical voice that we hear, no box to emit sound to reassure us that we are forgiven. No, that requires faith; and faith is a dimly lit candle for someone who lives in the House of Doubt. And, only through God can we ask for forgiveness from certain souls with slates upon which we wrote negativity, the souls we never knew, never saw, the souls connected to the souls connected to the souls connected to the souls owning the slates we inscribed upon directly. With time, however, and hope, angels will speak words of encouragement until a heart will open, faith will come, and forgiveness shall follow. But, God is not the only person we need ask forgiveness.



We must be open to forgiving ourselves, to allow ourselves to admit to failures, to allow our hearts to remain open and to carry on, taking our lives into the future instead of forcing them to live in the darkness of the past cemented in time. For, forgiveness from all of the forces in the world combined can never equal the devastation that one can do to their soul by never forgiving the self of the past.



And, all of the souls who have wronged each other, writing upon the slates of others, intended or not, harsh words and cruelty, directions of darkness, heartbreak and ignorance; those who have written slates that have encouraged others to live lives of betrayal and loneliness, despair and grief need all request of each other a forgiving heart; and that is a request which can only be truly made when change is occurring, when the light begins to shine more brightly in what had once been a dimmed heart. And, what of the souls who have already passed through this world and into death, the souls from whom we need to ask forgiveness? Well, I do not know. Katrina? Does the secret rest in whether or not we are able to forgive ourselves, forgive and move on?



There are people who believe that they must only ask forgiveness of God, that the forgiveness of any other mortal is unimportant and unnecessary, that God’s forgiveness is certain, and that the action being forgiven should never be brought up again. But, one requires the human component for healing to occur, one needs the experience of speaking the words, the power of hearing the words, of allowing opportunity for change.




Forever,
Christina






This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.

Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated December 12

December 12
Katrina,



The sun shines today upon glistening snow, twinkling as if snowflakes are smiling back to the sun. The birds that remain here have been marching through the frosty blanket of the Earth, looking back upon their steps as if to study the interesting tracks they have created. A quiet peace hovers above the land like mist above the water. God must surely be sitting atop some mountain, looking down upon the beauty and enjoying the view.



I dreamed last night of snow falling upon fields of wildflowers, of angels, and of words unconnected to each other flowing through my mind, words spoken by voices unrecognized, words spoken in peace and words spoken in anger. And, I awoke this morning wondering if, at least, the angels feel I’m worth the fight.



Though there is great beauty outside the window, inside the walls of my heart and inside the walls of this house there is a deafening silence; it is a darkening, frightening silence that I have known before, a silence filled with a desolation void of comfort, an empty and hollow abandon, a silence that seems to engulf the world about me and drown any bridges that may have been. And, as I write this, I have but to wonder who won the battle, which voices did I believe and then follow, marching, step by step, faithfully, after nothing.



But, as the future becomes the present, fading quickly into the past, the sun begins to shine upon the walls of The Oak and the walls reflect to the sun the shimmer of hope. And, as the light begins to brighten the room, I think I see the ceramic angels gently turn their loving smiles to me and begin to broaden their wings, and down the hall I hear the faint sound of laughter.



Whispers cross the corridor, Katrina, whispers that seem to grow nearer, stronger. Mother? Father? And, I could swear I feel Whiskers brush his coat against my foot, scratching his back as he settles down to nap. And, on the air now floats the scent of wildflowers. And, the laughter is now in this room.



“We love you,” whisper voices in unison, though I recognize each voice individually. “We love you,” words I’ve needed to hear for so long, but do I dare believe? “We love you,” the voices continue, repeatedly, over and over again, until, finally, I believe. Yes, I believe.



And the voices fade away with the scent of wildflowers and the feel of Whiskers sleeping by my foot is gone, yet, I believe.



Love always,
Christina




This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.

Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated December 9

December 9
Katrina,



The snow has stopped and the animals have been viewing their redecorated homeland. The cows have remained in the barn while the horses have ventured out in the snow, running, lifting their hooves high as if they realize with each step the feeling of the cold snow upon their legs. One of the few birds that have remained during the winter months peaks out from his wooden home high on a pole, appearing to shake his head "no" at the thought of a morning flight from his warm abode before returning inside. And, me, I sit near a crackling fire in the warmth and security of The Oak, viewing the world from behind Father’s desk and through this old window.



Lisa and the rest of the house staff have been decorating for Christmas, shades of greens and reds, golds and silvers falling across the walls of The Oak while trees with red and white candy canes and ribbons and bows stand proudly in corners. Poinsettias wrapped with ribbons sit on top of tables and chests like honored guests and gifts wrapped in shiny paper sit beneath trees, their papers reflecting the twinkle of the firelight as if whispering to the flames the surprise wrapped within. Like Betsy and Mother, Lisa always makes certain that The Oak is decorated tastefully and with a wonderful sense of style.



Ceramic angels that sit in this room seem to smile a bit more brightly this time of year, stretching out their wings a bit wider as if each night they leave their molded form and take flight around the world to assist the snow, whispering words of truth, words of hope, and words of peace to all who will listen and to those who will not. Upon the wind they will glide, unseen forces of kindness with intentions of helping kindness to multiply, helping souls to become voices for those who cannot speak.



And voices some will become, speaking up for those who cannot speak for themselves, speaking out for those tormented by the demons of darkness; speaking loudly against wrongs committed in the world, those of great proportion effecting many and those that may seem so small but can cause perpetual consequences. The angels understand that voices must be raised against the darkness or the darkness shall overcome the light, little by little as one slate effects another. Alone or united with others, the angels will pass on their words of wisdom; and alone or united with others, voices will rise to give praise and protection to humanity, the heart of existence, and to protect nature, a partner in healing.



Sisters always,
Christina





This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.

Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated December 8

December 8
Katrina,



The snow is falling heavily, an icy veil of white outside the window that blows in the wind like the sails of a ship on the open ocean. How beautiful it is to know that when the snow settles the world outside will be a sea of white, snowflakes shaking the hands of the trees and embracing the rooftops while icicles hang from the eaves as if they’re waving to the ground below.



The world is at peace in moments like this, when truth falls to the Earth from the clouds above, finding its way into the smallest of hidden crevices, making its way into the hearts of all. Wolves will peak out from their homes, looking up into the snowy air, shaking their heads and brushing their noses with their paws as cold flakes fall upon them, and then running through the snow as if playing in the rain of white and trying to catch snowflakes in their mouths. Bears will wake from their winter slumber momentarily, yawning as they make their way to view the snow falling from above, and smiling as they return to their seasonal sleep with fluid dreams of snow falling upon them as they slide down mountainsides in glee. Humans who have long since forgotten the joy of life will find it again in the snow, laughing as they fall to the ground to make snow angels, enter into friendly snowball fights, make men made of snow, or simply share a hot cocoa kiss as two hearts walk at twilight, holding hands with the love of their life and laughing as they remember the snow games from earlier in the day.



The Earth rests in its blanket of white, sleeping peacefully, calmly, and dreaming of the future. But, the Earth knows that the future does not live in the next season in rotation or in the next new year. Rather, the future lives in each new moment, each new breath, and it is waiting for us with great hope and expectation, with smiles of dreams and plans and laughter. Yes, the future is waiting for us, waiting for us all.



Forever,
Christina




This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.

Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated November 23

November 23
Katrina,



Thanksgiving, Sister, a day brought about because a group of people believed in each other enough to struggle through difficult days and long nights, knowing in their heart that together, eventually, they would find their way to a better life. Perhaps their survival was due not so much to hard labor or good weather or fortune as much as to their belief in each other, their dependence upon each other, their faith that the group, that each individual, was worth fighting for, was worthy of something better, something more.



We all need someone to believe in us, someone who believes that we’re capable and competent, someone who believes that we’re good enough. Everyone needs someone who will lift the spirits from time to time, a reminder in times of difficulty that perseverance will prevail, a reminder that each of us has the ability to succeed, that each of us is good enough. When someone believes in us, the doors of the future fly open, waiting for us to choose one to enter; although the road may not be easy, mistakes will be made, and doubt felt from time to time, the journey is made easier, the possibilities seem endless, and the path is made to be a brighter walk through life because humanity without built a light within.



But, it’s not enough simply to believe in someone, for one must express it; a positive light beaming from one heart to another like a ray of hope, love in its truest form, humanity. Words unspoken have a power all their own, but have meanings often misinterpreted as their opposite.



The candle is dim and the wick short for those who do not have someone to believe in them, someone to express to them regularly that they are capable, good enough, worthy. And, those unsupported by the humanity of others are easy to recognize, the light of their eyes dimmed to possibility, the tone of doubt in their voice, the troubled expression of sorrow upon their face, a spirit that gives up too easily in the face of difficulty, and a body that seems alone even in a crowded room, heartbroken, lost.



If a small group of people, such as the pilgrims, believed in each other enough to create for themselves a new world, imagine the good that would come to the world, imagine the humanity that would exist if humans began to feel as though each human--each and every one--was worthy, was good enough. The world, I think, would be a much better place, a kinder place where the true potential of humanity was unlocked.



Forever Sisters,
Christina





This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.

Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated November 21

November 21
Katrina,



Sometimes, when The Oak is closed, a stranded motorist unfamiliar with the area or a local resident just checking to see if we’re open will find their way to The Oak. Betsy’s granddaughter, Lisa, will usually show them about the house, pointing out certain antiques or locations of interest, telling them of the history of the house, telling them about us. But, about this time, about fifteen years ago, someone found their way to The Oak for a different reason.



I could get around better then and, even this time of year, could venture out on to the porch for a breath of fresh air or take a brief walk about the property near the house. One afternoon, when one could comfortably remain outside for a bit of time if they remained in the light of the sun, a young woman of about twenty years was noticed by one of the farm workers as she walked up the drive, walking without intention, walking without concern. The worker, who had been tending to the cows and horses, noticed the young woman and went to her, and he noticed that her clothes were torn and her soul shattered. He brought her to me, up on the porch, holding her by her waist to help her stand.



She was unable to remember from where she had come but only that she felt as though she had been walking forever. She knew of no front gate to The Oak, no guards, and how she passed over the boundaries of The Oak we never knew. Unable she was, at first, to look me in the eye, and when she finally raised her head to me bruises were seen upon her face, her eyes and cheeks. Chills came across my heart, chills disconnected to the weather, when I saw the bruises, the cuts, the empty eyes of a lifeless soul sitting before me. She didn’t have to tell me what had happened to her, but she would do so in her own time. And, there on the front porch, she told me that her name was Hope.



Her body weakening, the farm worker carried her inside and placed her on the couch. Lisa gathered some blankets while I sat there beside Hope. The house staff brought to her foods that were soft to chew and liquids that would warm her and help Hope to regain her strength. I stayed there with Hope as the walls seemed to hover over her protectively, leaning inward and checking on her as a mother would a child.



After she ate and rested, she began to tell me of what had happened, of her traveling to a visit with a friend--hitchhiking it was called--of the car stalling in the snow, of the man she was traveling with taking advantage. When he had taken from her all he could, he threw her out of the car like discarded garbage and he sped away, and she ran until she could no longer run, and then she walked until she found herself at The Oak. She had never heard of The Oak, but patiently listened as she ate as I told her some of our stories about how Father built this house for Mother and how we grew up here. Lisa and I encouraged Hope to allow herself to be taken to the doctor, to the local office of police, but she refused. She was embarrassed, she was hurt, and she was frightened of possible retaliation. Much of the day had passed when her tears finally gave way, beginning to cascade down like a shower of confusion and betrayal. Finally, she was persuaded to go into town, and Lisa and I went with her to the local emergency room.



Lisa and I stayed with Hope, holding her hand and comforting her as much as possible as doctors and nurses spoke to her, performed tests, and poked and prodded in manners difficult even under the best of circumstances. A police officer came and talked to her there, asking questions of a personal nature and speaking with the doctors. But, although everyone wished her well, made referrals to counselors, and promised to try to find the one who had perpetrated this act, they seemed to treat her as if she had a common cold or something similar, lacking in the compassion that Hope so desperately needed.



When the hospital staff asked where Hope would be staying, I explained to them that she would remain at The Oak. At The Oak, we would be able to keep her safe and help her to heal. Hope was not certain at first, the prospect of staying with strangers was obviously frightening, but we convinced her that it would be the safest place for her. From The Oak, her family could be contacted and the difficult situation explained with patience. At The Oak, gates could be guarded so that danger would not be allowed inside. At The Oak, the walls Father built with hope could rejuvenate her spirit.



So, to The Oak Hope returned, and began the process of healing. And, during the weeks it required for her family to work through the snowstorms and travel to reclaim her, she helped me to heal somewhat too. How true it is that those as young as Hope can teach to those of us who are old lessons we never learned.



As she began to disclose more of the brutal experience that brought her to The Oak and more about her home life (her home life, thankfully, was a positive experience), I saw within her a forward looking soul that I had once been long ago, and I felt comfortable enough to tell her of pieces of my life, save important secrets. Hope was strong and brave, and kept repeating to herself that everything would be okay. Yes, everything would be okay. And, in those weeks of watching Hope struggle, survive, and grow stronger, of listening to her talk and reason, I began to feel more at peace with my similar experience, and all of the years that I had spent wondering if I had deserved such brutality were exchanged for knowledge that no one ever deserves as such.



Hope’s parents were still alive and doing well, and Hope had a sister as well. She spoke fondly of her family and seemed greatly confused that I could turn my back on my only sibling, a sister with whom I shared so much, and that I could turn away from the world until I was barely part of it. And, though she was broken and healing at the time, it was Hope who encouraged me to make peace with the past and move on. Though Hope had been brutally wounded, she still held tight to faith and looked up to God and looked toward the future with a positive heart.



It was about five years after Hope returned to her family that she returned to The Oak to visit with Lisa and myself. She thanked us for our help the day that she arrived and for our help throughout the weeks of her stay, and as she spoke she had a smile upon her face that lit up the room and a newborn child in her arms that lit up her heart. The man who had harmed her was captured and, after a difficult trial that brutalized her again, he was punished, punished for harming Hope. And, unlike myself, Hope pursued the future, beginning a family and working to help those who had suffered the same brutality as she by speaking up and speaking out, leaving the past behind her where it belonged.



And, that, my dear Sister, is the real secret of life--learning from the past, but leaving the past behind and moving forward. Hope knows that. Hope knows that dwelling in the past, in the wrongs that have been committed, presents us with nothing but roadblocks and dead ends. Yet, learning from the past will prevent mistakes from being recommitted and moving on will lead us to a better place.



Another opportunity had presented itself to me, showing me of the mistakes I had made, offering me a chance to try to make amends with different parts of my past, and I turned away. Do you think, Sister, that life ever tires of presenting us with opportunities, tires of our rejections and simply slips away?



I’m sorry, Sister, I’m sorry.



Forever,
Christina





This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.

Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated November 15

November 15
Katrina,



Pride is a strange god born of both Heaven and Hell. A god that can bless us with necessity, a desire to do a good job, to do a good deed, to follow the right course, and can also curse us with the blinders of ignorance and self-righteousness. Pride can focus our attention on the truth or it can create a long heavy curtain to hide the truth from our eyes, convincing us not to look behind the veil. Pride is a positive and a negative voice, sometimes misused and sometimes misinterpreted, but how it is used is up to each of us.



Each of us has a need for pride, a belief in our self that we are worthy of life, of happiness, of hope. It is pride that will help us to strive to improve, to grow, to learn, to be better tomorrow then what we are today. Pride will help us to continue walking along the road when the journey becomes difficult and the wind becomes strong, and pride will help us to hold on to the hand of hope, the hand that will walk with us through the fires of life. But a positive pride is a seed planted and nurtured by others who believe in us, those who inspire us to believe in our self, those who wish to help us grow.



When no one cares enough for another to plant the positive seed of pride, a spirit feels a hole in the soul; it is a hole needing to be filled but the spirit knows not what to use to bridge the vacancy, the gulf of emptiness that exists. Then, negative pride is born as the spirits of negativity whisper in the ears of the unfortunate words of false esteem and unreal hope, and the soul follows the only voices offering solutions for the void. And this pride feeds on itself, growing selfishly without the humanity of the positive pride. But, even in the brightest light as well as in the most quiet of moments, the negative pride is an empty shell, a poor disguise of the hollow within.



Dear Sister, it is possible for people to change, to improve, to increase their humanity. Is it possible that humanity could conquer the negative voices of pride and help souls to know the honest worthiness of living? Surely, in time, people will learn that being alive is the only necessity for being worthy of happiness, of positive pride, and true esteem. How wonderful the world would be if we instilled into every spirit that they are worthy of pride, worthy of living, worthy of happiness, joy, and hope. When will the human race recognize our need for one another, each of us, all of us?



Sisters,
Christina





This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.

Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated November 10

November 10
Katrina,



As the holiday nears, The Oak is preparing to close for the colder months. Periodically, so that the local residents who wish to visit can come see The Oak, it will open as the snow falls and the water freezes, a day here and a day there. In the winter, ice skaters will glide across the water after it becomes ice, turning and spinning and jumping and twirling. The snow will soon make the mountain treacherous to climb as the snow and ice covering steep sections settles on the mountain in ways that prevent proper footing and the trees, protective of the newborn snow, hover over the flakes and prevent the sun from creating change too quickly.



Winter is the season when the Earth shows all that nothing ever remains the same, but nothing ever truly dies; rather, it changes into something different, something new. In the winter, the rain changes into snow and ice, later returning to liquid to be absorbed into the Earth and various bodies of water. The winds from the north that blow through the winter months will return to their home after the season to prepare to come again. And the winter itself, in time, will change into spring. Life is about change, opportunities for choice, for chance, for mistakes, and even opportunities to redeem ourselves from our wrongdoings should we choose to see them for what they are.



During the holiday season of the colder months, hearts melt, displaying warmth and affection not expressed throughout the year. The human race becomes more giving, more forgiving, more open to change, and more open with their hearts as they begin to reach out more to others and close less their eyes to the truth. And, for a brief time, thankfulness, gratitude, and appreciation begin to rule over the disillusioned and the discontent.



As children, we walked with Father to visit each of the farm workers and every member of the house staff, calling each of them by name and asking of their families as Father wished them a blessed winter season, truly meaning it in his heart. Grateful, Father was, for the changes in The Oak that the workers had helped to create, for the heartfelt care and concern the workers shared for the property; and grateful, the workers were, to be employed by an open heart.




How many people are as fortunate today?



Sister, are you there?



Always,
Christina




This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.

Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated November 7

November 7
Katrina,



We must have been six or seven, Sister, when Leroy allowed us to sit around him in chairs made of hay while he taught us how to attach one board to another so that a bird could live safely and securely within its abode. It was Father who approved of letting Leroy show us the secrets of these small, yet important, constructions that we so cherished, Mother seeing this as information completely unnecessary to a female child. And Leroy, who seemed to me to be the oldest person on Earth, was pleased to share his knowledge with the two young souls who treasured the birds as much as he.



There, in the sanctity of the barn, Leroy carved end pieces of wood with a knife, gently blowing off the shavings now and then and speaking of the importance of making certain that the end of each piece of wood fit snuggly into a hole carved into an adjoining piece of wood. A cool spring breeze blew through the barn at times, punctuating Leroy’s tales of life and how they related to the birdhouse as if the breeze was agreeing with him, empowering him, and trying to convey to us the strength of the message. Each piece of wood in the birdhouse, Leroy explained, like each person in the world, has a role to fill; each piece of wood becoming stronger in its own right by supporting the other pieces of wood; multiple sticks of wood working together to assist each other in being more, in being better than what each could have been alone.



I remember Whiskers sitting there with us, sniffing and scratching at the hay, rolling about and then giving himself a bath, and then stretching to fall asleep at our knees as Leroy talked about strength. It was Leroy’s father and grandfather who had taught Leroy how to build a birdhouse, encouraging, gently redirecting, and applauding Leroy’s efforts as he learned and failed and improved until the goal had been reached. Inner strength, Leroy explained, of a piece of wood or an animal or a human, doesn’t begin within but from without.



Inner strength, that undeniable confident voice within that reminds us that we are capable, is a seed that must be planted early by others working together to strengthen the one. No seed planted in the field, Leroy explained, can grow without the aid of the Earth and the Sun and the rain. And, in return, like the pieces of wood of the birdhouse, the seed will be nourished and encouraged from the outside until strong enough to nourish itself and, in gratitude, will plant seeds of strength within others and nourish them. All working together to empower each individual, each plant, each animal, will result in a harvest of blessings.



Humans are like that, Katrina, interconnected like the pieces of wood in the birdhouse and dependent upon each other for nourishment and strength until we are strong enough to stand on our own and, even then, requiring assistance to maintain strength. The subtle clues of encouragement, or the lack thereof, will create the structure of the life to come. For all to survive, for all to be nurtured and to learn to nurture others, humans must feel that we all are valuable enough to encourage and worthy enough to help with actions instead of merely pretty words, for those who experience lives without true nourishment suffer a fate worse than physical death.



Oh, Katrina, do you remember how The Oak was so open when we were young, the windows risen to allow the breeze to dance through the house, cooling rooms and carrying aromas about the house, bringing to us on its waves the sounds of the birds, the sounds from the fields?



Memories often return in dreams, Sister. Do you remember when you learned to ride a horse, frightened at climbing aboard the animal with a body so much larger than your own? But you did it that summer day at only five years, beneath a blue sky free of clouds and the sun beaming down. With Mother keeping her hand on your leg and Father holding on to the reins, you tucked your skirt beneath your body, sitting side saddle, of course, and slightly lifted your face towards the Heavens. Slowly at first, until you became more comfortable, easing into each step as you rode in circles with Mother and Father’s help. How proud everyone was when you were comfortable enough to hold the reins and lead the way around the tiny enclosure all by yourself, yelling back to Mother and Father that you were riding! I remember it like it was yesterday, Sister, but I can’t remember where was I at the time. Sister?



Yes, how I remember those wonderful days, days filled with hope and learning, the days of two children, sisters, running through fields of wildflowers on sunny days in our perfect little world with Whiskers by our side. I revel in these old memories, a comfort to me in my old age. It’s like that wonderful sensation of waking up on a hot summer night for a glass of water and feeling the coolness of the kitchen floor beneath bare feet. It’s wonderfully inescapable, this history of ours, and somehow bittersweet.



Sisters,
Christina




This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.

Letters Home; Section 1, Letter dated November 2

November 2
Katrina,



Thanksgiving is coming, and the house is now decorated with the colors of fall, the tablecloths, the curtains, and the china matched perfectly to the season of gratitude. Outside, the snow is quietly falling, trying not to wake the Earth as it sleeps, and in the distance I see the old oak tree collecting snow on its branches like unexpected treasures found in the sand.



And, thankful I am in my old age of all I have been granted in this world. We were fortunate, Sister, to be able to grow up here at The Oak, a home made with love, a house with hope as its center stone. Here, especially on Thanksgiving, we enjoyed juicy turkeys and hams, sweet potatoes and corn, biscuits and marmalades, and limitless desserts of fruits and chocolate and custard, and hope.



We were blessed with safety in our younger days, blessed with fall festivals and stories that were told to us by bear-catching men who doubled as magicians, and blessed by a childhood of laughter and picnics on sunny days down by the lake near the oak tree. Educations, we received, and importance was placed upon them. And, we were blessed with regular visits to museums and art galleries, blessed to experience the cities and the countryside, to travel, and to learn of other cultures, to know of lifestyles other than the affluent.



Even since the last time I saw you, I have been blessed in many ways though I’ve not always recognized those blessings or appreciated them. Blessed, I’ve been, at continuing to reside here at The Oak, to watch it grow and change, to be amidst memories of our childhood and to view The Oak as it prepares for its future. Blessed, I’ve been, that the business deals of Father and myself have supported The Oak, myself. Blessed, I am, that my health has continued to allow me, at times, to look across the fields of clover, towards the lake and the old oak tree.



Blessed, yes, for the visitors who have come here to The Oak, telling of their lives in ways that has taught me much about my own life. Blessed, indeed, for an opportunity to share my life, my mistakes, and to warn others of the dangers. Blessed, true, for all the people that I have met along a long journey, people of business, strangers, and people of familiarity who have helped to teach me, helped me to reach the place I am now, helped me to recognize my mistakes, helped me to heal.



And, yes, I was blessed with a childhood with the greatest sister I could ask for, a sister, a confidant, a joyful soul with a trusting smile who ran with me through fields of wildflowers.



Yet, how could it be, Katrina, that two children so similar, born of the same mother, born in the same hour, could look at the world so differently, could lead such different lives? Can one be born cursed by a predetermined future, or cursed by slates of an earlier past? Can one be born cursed by the slates of another? Sister? Is there such a thing as a demon seed, a seed within a few that writes upon the slate negativity, working as a filter so that happiness is diluted, little by little, until it seems either nonexistent or unimportant? Or, is it simply each of us, day by day, constructing our lives like a jigsaw puzzle in the process of creation?



From the very beginning, we were so different. You, Sister, were always the bright-eyed cheery child, prepared for life each morning with a trusting smile, with laughter, while I was more difficult to please, more guarded of events that occurred, more guarded of intentions and true emotions. It was I, according to our Mother’s accounts, left alone in the crib for incessant crying and who was difficult to take a bottle. The demeanor you exerted was much more pleasant, so we were told.



As we grew, our bond seemed to me unbreakable, two children dressed as one, playing, learning, growing. We shared the same crib and later the same room, we shared parents and chores and meals, yet we seemed to grow separately as well. We were two children of the same age but reared differently in the same home by the same people. Proper, we decided, when certain dreams were encouraged over others. Necessary, we said, when Mother would remain leaned, smiling over a certain shoulder during studies. Habits, we called it, of who received the first hug or greeting upon entering a room. Early, I noticed, that punishments always fit the crimes but that punishments were different for each child, punishments for one involving long periods of being alone. Sometimes, Sister, I wondered if they were truly removing from me not the freedom to roam but the one thing that meant the most to me, my time with you. Perhaps, I was simply jealous, Sister, of the sister I wanted to be.



You, Sister, were my only friend, my best friend. How could I have expected that you would not grow older, wiser, and leave me for a new life, leave me to follow your dreams, your heart? I should have known better. I should have wished for you better. I should have made it easier for you.



And, on this Thanksgiving, I am truly thankful that, despite the grief I caused, your dreams of happiness, of love and family, became your life.



Sisters,
Christina




This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.

Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated October 25

October 25
Katrina,



The house is quiet today, dear, most of the staff and field workers in town enjoying the fall festival this year. Here, at The Oak, I am left with my memories of the past and this beautiful view of the property. In all these years that I have been writing to you, Sister, visiting you, did I ever tell you about Thomas?



It was the day after our thirty-eighth birthday, Kat, and the museums and art galleries had been buzzing over the improvements to film that allowed color to be expressed in the photograph. More alive than ever seemed the faces, the places captured in those prints. And, I had finally decided to take photography as a hobby, a hobby that I desperately needed so that my life would no longer be filled completely with work, a hobby I had finally decided I deserved.



A Saturday, it was, when I went to the art gallery and saw a color photograph of a fall tree, and it was in that moment that I made the decision to purchase photographic supplies. Even if I only took photographs of The Oak or the old oak tree by the water, I wanted to try; and for once I felt capable of trying. How is it, Sister, that someone who makes important business decisions each day, decisions effecting people and money and lives, could, at the same time, feel so completely incompetent and incapable?



Not the first clue did I have about buying such equipment other than what I had read in literature. I asked the director of the museum, a man who was familiar with me due to our family contributions to the museum, and he recommended one of his assistants, an amateur photographer. And, that was when I met Thomas.



Thomas was a nice man, just a bit older than us but sharing the same birthday. Together, he helped me to choose all of the appropriate gear that I would need to begin, slides and boxes and tripods and more. Over time and visits to the museum, he began to explain in more detail about choosing the best lighting, about framing the subject being photographed, about distance and shadow and backgrounds. Thomas seemed so intelligent about photography and much more excited about the art than the books I had read.



He was employed as an assistant to the director of the museum, but took photographs on weekends and when time allowed. If he traveled, he took photographs. If the season changed, he took photographs. For no reason whatsoever than his passion for the art, he took photographs. A few of his photographs hung in the museum, but he had found little professional success with his pictures.



I took the hobby seriously, trying to learn what I could about taking those types of photographs I had seen in the museums, the pictures that contained emotion that spoke to the viewer as if the photograph had a voice that would not be silenced as long as the image existed. Outside, I would be, when business obligations had been cared for, setting up photographs of the areas that spoke to me, the lake with its swirling mirror of the world, the fields with their lives that vary with the season, the old barn with the character of a friendly but grumpy old man with many stories to tell, and The Oak, its dignity ever present, its stories endless.



Over the next couple of years, Thomas made periodic visits to The Oak, assisting me with photographing the landscapes, the house, the old oak tree by the water. He agreed that the property contained beautiful scenery for photographs and took a few of his own photographs of the entranceway, the drive up to the house, and the trees.



In time, I began to ask him to stay for lunch when the hour neared and he was on the property. Informal yet somehow impersonal lunches, like that between a teacher and a student, melted over time into lunches more personal, more revealing of information. Although I told him little, for there was little I was willing to share, he told me of his life, his childhood, and his travels. He was pleasant to be with and interesting to talk to. I found myself, on some occasions, quite taken with him and, on other occasions, doubting every word he said, wondering if George had returned in another body for no other reason than the knowledge that he could take advantage.



Thomas presented himself as trustworthy, and the director of the museum trusted Thomas without doubt or hesitation; but I never fully trusted anyone in those days, including Thomas. But, over time, little by little, I found myself feeling comfortable in his presence, comfortable in the sense of honesty and safety.



During the later part of those couple of years, I agreed to attend and enjoyed evenings out at local restaurants and theaters with Thomas and even began to have a few rare gatherings again at The Oak for business associates or charitable events. During the later part of those couple of years, laughter returned to the dining room and the grand entrance room, and the walls applauded the sunlight shining upon them as the audiences applauded the actors in theatrical productions.



And, during that time, Katrina, I spoke to Thomas of you, your marriage, and the changes in our relationship. It was Thomas who, like an angel sent to me, encouraged me to go to you, to talk, to try to regain such an important heart I had sent away. I thought much of you, of contacting you, of trying to change the past, yet I never did so.



Thomas was a gentleman, intelligent and encouraging. Never did he begin discussing issues of finance and never did he mention fancy dreams of the future. Instead, Thomas was happy with where he was in his life, settled but with goals, and appreciative to be living his dream of photography even if considered an amateur. Thomas respected the opinions of all but made his own decisions, and his decisions were made with a responsible character. Thomas was not prone to pride or recklessness and felt no ill will toward others. He was a good man with good ethics, and yet voices in my head, like ghosts from the past, would not leave me, whispering doubt at every turn.



In the winter, nearly two years after we had met, Thomas and I were attending a community candlelit picnic by the river. An orchestra played, their images reflected in the water as blankets and fires made of kindling brought from houses about town kept the audience warm. It was then that Thomas first mentioned marriage, but I would hear of none of it and, finally, told him of George. It seemed, however, that he already knew of George from rumor about town and cared not of that part of my past.



After much indecision on my part and through much persuasion on his, we agreed to be married. We made plans to meet at the train station and travel to the capitol, planning to marry there just before the opening of a new museum to house one of his photographs of The Oak.



The day we were to meet at the station, I ordered that the front gates to the property be locked and that no one be allowed to pass; I locked the great front doors of the house; and I never left the house that day, abandoning him there, if he actually showed there as he had promised. The ghosts in my head continued, as they had for months, to tell me that if I risked my heart he would leave me someday, and I would be alone and cold like before. I never returned to the museum and I never heard from him again. I never made any attempt to contact him, not even a note to try and explain, and I’ve often wondered if he even bothered to travel to the train station that day. Most days, I suppose he did not. But, whether it is ghosts in my head continuing their rants or if it is my conscience trying to ease itself from the heartache I may have caused another, I do not know.



The bags I had packed were unpacked and the camera equipment was boxed up, a reminder I cared not to have about me. Sometimes, I wonder what happened of Thomas, but I don’t allow the thought to remain for long.



Katrina, the weather grows worse as the season progresses and I am no longer able to visit. But, as always, I will be certain to send you beautiful flowers.



Sisters forever,
Christina




This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.

Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated October 18

October 18
Katrina,



Monica took me for a stroll through the house today, Kat, and The Oak has been decorated for a Halloween gathering being held tonight, a costume ball for business leaders in the community raising money for a new local hospital wing. I’ve heard that an auction will be held at the gathering to add to the money raised from general donations. Black cats and steaming cauldrons of witch’s brew line the walls and accent the windows while pumpkins and fall leaves are scattered here and there. Spider webbing has been hung artfully from the tall ceilings and down the rails of the grand staircase. Whoever decorated the room did a delightful job and was certainly in the Halloween spirit.



Once the charitable gathering is over, the house will be prepared for other Halloween guests due next week when The Oak shall be the destination of field trips of local school children, their teachers, and their parents. When they are here, their hand paintings will adorn the walls next to paintings of ours, Sister, and they will be shown how to create sock puppets and be allowed to paint new pictures if they want; they will be able to throw plastic rings to win prizes, eat caramel covered apples, and drink hot chocolate. They can listen to and watch people explain how The Oak was run back in our day or they can watch magic performed, and there will be plenty of candy for all.



And, I hope that at the end of the day they leave as happily as we always did from the fall festival. Mother, however, would have been appalled at so many children running across the property and through the house in dirty shoes and with paint on their hands. Or, would she?



Then, the week after the field trip visits, the final set of Halloween preparations will be put in place for any visitors who may come. At that time, the house will be decorated with the few items that were used when we were children, paintings that we created as children that Mother had kept in the attic along with other decorations. Compared to the decorations of today, the decorations we used seem simple, the streaming paper of orange and black and red and yellow, the small wooden pails of hard candy, the pumpkins, but they mean so much more to me than steaming cauldrons.



Kat, do you remember our fifteenth Halloween, the Halloween when Mother planned the big party at The Oak? Everyone from around the area that was our age whom Mother considered appropriate was invited to The Oak that year. And, for a change, Father was there. Weeks had been spent planning the party, with decorations and food planned that were certain to charm and amaze everyone. And, finally the day arrived.



The last minute details had been put in place; you and I had chores to do that, as Mother said, must be completed before attending the party. Together, we scrubbed our shoes and ironed our dresses, Betsy looking over us to make certain it was done correctly. We made our beds and said our prayers and read our texts for the day. And, with time to spare, we set out to walk through the fields and visit the animals.



The air was crisp as we walked along, listening to the leaves crack beneath each step, laughing as we spoke of ghosts and ghouls and witches, and teasing each other with an unexpected tap on the shoulder or a whisk of the hair as if a ghost were in our presence. For miles we spoke of the party, of how Betsy sewed our dresses, of our dreams for our future.



Wife and mother, you always dreamed of being, and you sought out your dream, finding it early and holding on to it with joy. I dreamed of travel, of photography, of amazing adventures, but was told by those to whom I mentioned this dream that it was an impossibility for me. Soon, I simply stopped mentioning it to anyone and deemed it impossible for myself. But, a dream we both shared was a hope that Henry, the teenage son of one of Father’s business associates, would come to the party and would dance with us, and we laughed as we pretended to be written on his dance card and danced with the ghosts in the fields of crackling leaves.



As the day grew on, we returned to the house and began preparing for the party, getting into our dresses and preparing our hair while drinking hot cocoa and eating freshly baked snickerdoodle cookies to warm us from our walk outside. Excited, we were, about the party, about the possibility of seeing Henry, and of seeing how dressed up everyone would be. As we heard someone coming up the drive, we went to the window to watch people as they arrived.



Mother was to greet the guests upon arrival so that we could make an entrance later coming down the grand staircase. And as you pretended, there in our room, to glamorously make your way down the staircase, holding your cup of hot cocoa like a wand, you tripped in your shoes, a sight I, at first, thought was funny. You were unharmed, thank goodness, but the cocoa had badly stained your dress. I took the cup from you and began helping you up when Mother arrived and saw your dress and the stain and the cup I was holding.



Mother was furious, for there was no removing the stain in time for the party. And, as Mother began to talk of clumsiness and unladylike behavior, I thought we were about to cry. Though we tried to explain that it was merely an accident, Mother was certain that I had spilled the cocoa on your dress and even more certain that I had done so intentionally. We had learned, in these moments, not to interrupt Mother’s lectures.



So, at Mother’s instructions, we removed our dresses. Then, you stepped in to the dress I had been wearing and went to the party, descending down the grand staircase, I’m certain, with great glamor and poise. And I, upon instruction, remained alone in our room for the rest of the evening.



Father visited with me during the party, Kat, as I heard the music playing in the grand room down below. Did I ever tell you of this? I told him of how the accident occurred, but even he found it hard to believe; I don’t believe that he believed the truth. Though we were alike in so many ways, you were always the more graceful of the two, the more balanced, reasonable, and level headed. Father left our room saying that he was not sure what exactly had occurred, but that it was never good to make up stories, and I remained exiled to our room.



When the party was over, you returned to our room and we both cried. You told me of the wonderful party, the food, and, yes, your single dance with Henry who, much to our surprise, turned out not to be such a good dancer after all. You described the dresses worn by the girls and the suits worn by the boys and the music that was played. You even sneaked some of the food up to our room for me to enjoy.



We worked together, the next day, though you had been told not to work with me, trying to remove the stain from the dress.



How strange, Sister, that I should begin by recalling our wonderful Halloween decorations and should end up here, with this memory of days gone by. What Halloween ghost is whispering in my ear?



Yet, as I sit here, the smell on the air is wonderful, cinnamon and vanilla and pumpkin mixed together and baking until a luscious consistency is born. The aroma of apples and crusts and nutmeg and cloves rises up through the second floor. And, wonderful memories, memories of tastes and laughter and fall festivals, of Halloween holidays and pumpkin pies and listening to crisp leaves crack beneath the feet of two walking sisters return to my senses as if they exist in this moment instead of the past.



Always,
Christina




This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.

Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated October 17

October 17
Katrina,



All seasons hold wonder and beauty and are an asset to the Earth, but spring is an incredible season. The dim grass of winter will begin to change in to a jacket of vibrant green, each blade growing taller as if trying to greet the sun with a handshake and a good-morning smile. The trees will begin to playfully wave their branches at the world, showing off their new buds and their new leaves, stretching out their limbs as though they’ve just woken up after a long winter nap. The birds will return from their winter abode to reunite with friends, together singing to the sun of their activities while on winter break.



Spring is a joyful season. Colorful flowers will peek out from beneath their earthy blanket like a child waiting on Christmas, wondering if it is yet time to arise and determining how cold it is outside of their cocoon. Squirrels will sit in the warmth of the day, looking upward and periodically scratching their heads, uncertain if winter is truly over or if they are about to begin their favorite season, a season where they perform treasured acrobat dances on trapeze phone wires and awe crowds with their abilities to climb anything vertical.



Spring is a season of celebration. House-cats will sit in open windows, meowing reviews to the birds of their singing and watching the Earth come back to life. Dogs will rest in the grass with their front paws crossed, yawning, watching the bees fly figure-eights in the air.



Spring is a Heavenly season. It is a time of rebirth, of new beginnings, of growth. Spring is an opportunity for change and the result of winter hope. Spring is the symbol for all that we have been, all we are, and all that we can be, a reminder that the cycle of life is a circle of change that continues on without end, presenting us with endless possibilities for improvement.



Like the Earth, humans have seasons of change, periods of growth followed by periods of reflection and germination. People seed lives and the lives around them with dreams, plans, thoughts, and actions. We hope to know that when summer is over and the fall begins we’ll leave something good behind, a seed to be comforted by the blanket of winter so that it will sprout in the spring and bloom.



Spring is a new opportunity for life to bloom, for people to grow, and for all living things to look to the sun with joy and thankfulness of being alive.



There is no better time of year to make the first step of change than in the spring, the time of beginnings. As the Earth awakes to new life, so can the souls that walk this Earth. But, just as the flowers have reservations of birth, wondering if the world has warmed enough to help them grow, humans too have hesitations, fear of the first step. Yet, once the fear of the first step has been overcome, one step will lead to another until we are walking comfortably and ready to run.



The baby bird, up in the tree, forces his way into life by pecking at the shell of an egg with strength and determination to live. Soon, the bird is able to peak over the edge of a comfortable nest with curiosity, viewing the world from the height of a tree. The world is filled with wonders for this new creature, the sound of rustling leaves mingling with the barking dogs below, the feel of the breeze that carries the fragrance of flowers. But, the bird cannot leave the nest until learning how to fly, how to soar high above the ground, until learning how to use the skills and strengths unborn yet inside him. Yet, in time, the baby bird will take that first step with shaky knees, swallowing hard for reassurance, flapping his wings in terror and excitement, stepping outside the nest and singing as he learns to fly, a bit off balance at first, until he is soaring.



But, let us not forget that spring is born of hope, and hope can be found in every moment. One need not wait until the rebirth of the Earth to create a rebirth of the self. Don’t you agree, Sister?



Forever,
Christina




This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.

Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated October 16

October 16
Katrina,



In the summer months, from the window or from the porch, I’ve watched the visitors come and go. Restless and unable to slow down, they are, as they walk the fields, view parts of the house, and visit the monuments; they are uncomfortable it would seem to slow the pace of life and leave behind their offices and places of business. Phones, they carry, and use frequently as they speak of business and other affairs, paying little attention to those who came here with them. In notebooks carried in purses or on the backs of literature they are given, they scribble notes, reminders of what else they feel they should be accomplishing.



Do they ever scribble of home, family, or holidays, I wonder; or do they note reminders of personal accomplishments yet needed to be made?



There once was a time when families lived off the land and businesses were few. Now, over time, we’ve created a society where that is no longer possible; working the land nearly an image of the past as farmland has grown tall, concrete buildings instead of corn, industry instead of feed. Families are now living off of businesses just as businesses are living off of families, an interdependency created by man that was not born within them.



But, somewhere in the rush of progress, in business ventures and efforts to climb corporate ladders, in the lure that has been created toward an elusive dream allegedly able to be bought with money, it has been forgotten about the importance of family, of personal interaction with people, of life outside of the business world. Acceptable, it has become, to make a life of business instead of using business to make a life.



People must learn to balance business and life, allowing themselves to enjoy life while it is available to them. After all, what good is business if one dies alone, having money in his coffin but without family to bid him adieu?



Father knew that.



Sisters,
Christina




This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.

Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated October 15

October 15
Katrina,



Truth is relative. What appears to be the truth to one may not be the truth of another. An interaction viewed by one as harmless or beneficial may to another be viewed as hurtful or inconsiderate. Truth is relative. Where one may feel pain, another may feel nothing; where one may see happiness, another may see something far more complex and ill at rest.



Truth is relative, the information written on the slates of our lives being filtered by the information already there, comparisons drawn for meaning and possibility, conclusions drawn for future reference. As humans live throughout their lives, from birth to death, the information from those interactions are written on the slates to serve as reminders of where we’ve been and the effect that it had, reminders that will effect future reactions. And, no information of life goes missing that has been written by the ghosts of the past, those ghosts of interaction and the ghost within our self.



Truth is relative, reason enough for humans to interact with goodness in their heart and the angels of hope about them; the angels are able to whisper kindness into the soul of the sender and the receiver and convince hopefulness and humanity to be written on the slates. The angels, like positive ghosts of possibility, can effect the sender, creating a messenger of peace by whispering in their ears words of the same, they can effect the message by helping words of wisdom to be sent, and they can effect the receiver by opening the heart and helping the message to be received in the light of hope.



But, take heed, for one must know the truth of their own slate before knowing the truth of the messages they send to others, for the ghosts who have written on the slate of the sender may disguise the truth of the message, and once a message is sent it cannot be erased from existence. One must take care in their interactions, for what one writes on the slate of another shall return and be written upon their own slate. For what ghosts are summoned and sent to haunt others, shall return to haunt the sender.



And, one must never claim to know another’s truth, for one cannot know the truth of another; a soul is unable to read the slate of another in totality, unable to grasp the context of the messages on the slate.



And, one must be careful to never judge another’s truth, for the truth is decided by the ghosts who have written upon the slate and the slate is the same for no two souls.



Forever Sisters,
Christina





This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.

Letters Home; Section 1, Letter dated October 10

October 10
Katrina,



Snowflakes are falling outside, intermingled with the raindrops as if the rain is teaching the new snow of the season how to fall, how to softly touch the ground, how to say hello to the Earth as if the Earth is being playfully awakened from a night of sleep. In the fields, the horses run, their manes blowing in the winds, running for the sheer exhilaration of the feeling of freedom, of being alive. Most of the birds have flown further south for the cold winter months, but a few remain, and they sit upon branches of the trees, the empty water fountain, and on the ground glancing up to enjoy the beautiful snow before returning to their preparations for winter.



The Earth and the animals know how to prepare for winter just as they prepare for each season. The Earth calls upon all its elements for help, the trees warming the Earth with their leaves, branches becoming homes for woodland animals, and the Earth repaying the favor by nourishing them all throughout the winter months. The animals work in small groups, gathering food to help them through the winter, gathering twigs and leaves to add to the warmth of their winter abodes.



Life, my dear Sister, requires teamwork, an interactive dependency upon one another. We need one another for teaching and learning, for keeping spirits high and reminding each other of the important aspects of life, and we need each other for compassion and assistance now and again. For many years, Katrina, I forgot this lesson.



While Betsy was still alive, my hardening heart somehow remained somewhat hopeful that love would find me and that I would somehow find what I needed to heal the hole inside, yet I forgot my responsibility to the success of those matters. Betsy found hope each day, seeking it out like searching for just the right apples for a pie, and she reminded me each day of the power of hope, of healing. But after Betsy died, after I saw you leave for the last time, hope began to dim like a candle burning out.



When hope is fading, one begins to care less about the journey towards the future; one begins to care less about taking the journey at all. Days begin to blur as monotonous activities fill hours simply to pass time as opposed to treasuring it, making use of it for a better tomorrow. I began to care little for social functions, charitable events, or the goings on in town. I became less willing to take financial risks and concerned less with getting to know new business associates or complimenting the familiar ones on their success with glamorous parties and delightful dinners.



Some of Father’s business dealings continued on as they always had, businessmen contractually obligated to certain responsibilities remaining in their deals with The Oak. Other businessmen who had worked many years with Father remained as well out of gratitude or comfort in the familiar. Other deals failed or never occurred at all, the exception being new businessmen who knew and needed the fortune of The Oak to support their deals. Yet, somehow, The Oak survived as did Father’s business, and I always satisfied my responsibility to the business but not to his reputation, not to the human side of business.



Within a few years, I began remaining here at The Oak, rarely, if ever, leaving its boundaries. There were no parties, no dinners, no social events held here at The Oak and I attended none elsewhere and, in time, to none was I invited. I was as alone as I could possibly be on this property with all the caretakers about the house, the fields. The only saving grace I may have, Katrina, from all those years is that, as Father did, I always took care of those who took care of The Oak. No, I didn’t lose all hope or goodness.



Have you ever watched the squirrels in the springtime? I can usually see them outside the window, their acrobats on the branches and on the ground amusing. The squirrels will dance about for one another, their heads moving about as if they’re talking, sharing the best locations to find nuts, extending their little arms and standing for emphasis. The squirrels seem to understand the importance of their interaction, each one offering something of importance to the other. The squirrels depend on each other to aid in survival, to brighten the day, to share the load to be gathered, to make the business of each day pleasant more than simply bearable.



The squirrels understand the necessity of teamwork in life, a lesson I cared not about for many years, my contact with others as minimal as I could make it--not out of hatred but out of fear of being hurt again in the deepest parts of my heart and in new ways I was certain someone would find. To protect myself, I stayed away from those I felt might have caused me harm, and I stayed away from you. In the end, I was harmed, harmed at the center of my soul by the only person I thought I could trust: Myself.



Do my reasons excuse my actions, actions that broke the first unwritten rule of humanity, the rule that explains the importance of our actions, the dependency upon each other, and the effect our actions have upon others? Will my regret grant me pardon? Was I or will I be punished somehow for not helping others or for some other rule broken? Or, was there no one helping me? How is it, Sister, that a soul arrives at a fork in the road and chooses the path to walk alone?



Forever,
Christina




This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.

Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated October 7

October 7
Katrina,



The autumn leaves are being blown by a gentle wind outside, cascading downward outside my window like a tangible rain of bright colors. How I remember as children extending our arms as we lifted our smiling eyes up to the sky, turning and dancing, enjoying the falling leaves. I remember piling the leaves in a basket so that Whiskers could jump in, scratching at the leaves until settling on a comfortable position for napping. The fall season holds so many memories of the past, memories of childhood, each leaf outside the window seeming to remind me of them.



It was in the autumn months when the most wonderful apple recipes would be made, the house filling up with the smell of apple and cinnamon and vanilla as pies and cobblers and cakes would be made, usually being eaten in less time than the time required for their preparation.



In the fall, thick, warm blankets of soft fabrics were brought down from the attic and placed upon the beds for the cool nights. Flames filled the fireplaces with light and wonder, and logs were placed in small piles beside the hearth. In the barn, care was taken so that the animals had extra warmth, extra hay in their stalls and extra food for their stomachs, and their water troughs were removed of ice each morning.



But, except for the autumn that you wed, the greatest enjoyment of the fall season was always the fall carnival held at the edge of town. Advertised as the greatest carnival in the territory, it was truly a marvel to the two of us. Never did we attend a fall carnival without eating at least one, and often more, caramel covered apples, apples that we would wash down with orange sodas, lemonade, or hot cocoa. We would begin saving our own money, a bit here and there, in the summer so that we could buy those tasty treats in the fall.



As we enjoyed the tastes of the carnival, we would walk through the midway and from tent to tent, witnessing things we could only see at the carnival. Fire-eating men, men who could swallow swords, women who knew the future, and women who could perform ballet on the trapeze or on the bare backs of horses were always at the carnival. Snakes with two heads and roaring lions tamed so that a man could put his head inside the lion’s mouth without harm were there too, along with mummies that were supposed to have been found in countries far away. Singing quartets would perform gospel songs and clowns would walk about giving children balloons or lollipops. Contests would be held for the best pie, the best cake, and the best cookie. There would be contests to catch pigs that had been bathed in lard, and farmers would exhibit their animals as they competed for the blue ribbon, a prize to be proud of indeed. And, when it was over, fireworks would light the night sky, filling the sky with a rainbow of colors and the air with explosions of excitement.



But, my favorite memory of the carnival, Katrina, is the one we attended when we were ten years old. Do you remember?



The air was a bit chilly even though we were wearing our sweaters, but the sun was shining and the orange, red, and yellow leaves were falling down about us. It was perfect carnival weather. Father and Mother were listening to the quartet sing as we were allowed to explore what the carnival had to offer.



We sat on a bench for a while, eating caramel covered apples and listening to an elderly gentleman, short in stature with a long white beard and hair to match, tell a story of how, after a bear attacked him, he killed the bear with nothing but his bare hands. The man stood beside a stuffed black bear that stood as tall as the circus tent and as wide as a door, the stuffed bear there to serve as proof of the accuracy of the man’s story. We listened with wide eyes as the man dramatically told of being all alone out in the wilderness, being awakened by the roar of the bear in his tent, as he told of the open mouth of the bear and the teeth prepared to eat him. He told of wrestling the bear, of hitting the bear with a frying pan, of winning the match, and then, after the battle, simply returning to his tent to sleep. It never occurred to us to ask him how a bear that size could enter his tent.



Later in the day, we drank hot cocoa as we watched magic performed. The magician (an elderly man who was short in stature with long white hair and a beard to match who seemed to us remarkably familiar) wore a tall, coned-shaped hat painted with the colors of the rainbow. He carried a magic wand with an emerald at its tip, and flowing robes, he wore, of purple and gold and blue with white stars and clouds and streaks of lightning painted upon them. Remarkable feats he accomplished, floating books of magic through the air, floating a woman through the air, and restoring pieces of paper he had torn. He could make words appear on slates, words that seemed to have been written by an invisible hand, and I sat there in awe and wonder of his talent, his ability.



We heard music performed and ate until our bellies ached; we saw jugglers, men on stilts, and clowns who acted as though they could not figure out how to ride a bicycle; and that night we saw an incredible display of fireworks. But, my favorite part of the day was exploring the tent containing paintings and photographs like no other I had ever seen.



Father and Mother had both been to Europe and had traveled the world, often returning with pottery or figurines, fabrics or valuable pieces of art, souvenirs of one kind or another, but we had only heard tales of the wonders of worlds far away. Then, at the carnival that year, the world seemed to come to us.



Colorful paintings of European castles sitting high on mountaintops were seen that day, castles with towers rising high and casting shadows upon the treetops down below. Mountains and autumn trees reached only as high as the base of the castles, castles that seemed to surely be as old as the mountain itself. There were paintings of kings and queens in royal dress, appearing angry and distressed as they sat on their thrones, as they were waited on by jesters bringing goblets of wine, and when they were in the presence of knights.



And, there were photographs that appeared to be real magic, not the illusions performed by the man with the long beard. Black and white, shadows and light, depicting eyes filled with emotion, moments captured like a firefly. In those photographs, faces told the story of their history, their adventures, and their hardships. The photographs showed the life of the rich, the life of the poor, and highlighted the differences between the two. Landscapes showed the differences between the seasons, between the deserts and the towns and the forests, while other photographs showed the differences between cultures. Photographs of animals from all over the world were shown for the prideful, playful beings they are at heart.



We had been regular visitors to museums and had traveled some, but we had never seen images that sparked my imagination like these did. I wanted so badly to be a photographer, to be able to capture moments of emotion on film to be saved forever. But, those were flights of fancy, Father and Mother said, for such work was too dangerous and not for ladies. But, at night, I would dream of visiting far away locations or, perhaps, only as far as town to capture on film moments that could last forever.



I grow tired, Sister, as has occurred so often lately. Remembering the past can sometimes drain the energy from one’s body. More frequently now, I haven’t the strength to leave my bed while other days I feel strong enough to sit on the front porch in the sunlight and watch the leaves fall around me. Some days, I only go as far as this desk, either to write or to simply look out the window, across the fields of clover now littered with fall leaves, towards the lake, and at that old oak tree still growing strong, reaching its branches to Heaven.



Always,
Christina




This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.

Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated October 3

October 3
Katrina,



Answers, the human race seeks answers, inquisitive spirits searching for reason, solution, and change. From the time of birth, humans, being as we are, seek answers to unending questions. Humans wish to know how the world goes round and why it does so, why the sun rises in the east, why life exists and the reason for it, why do bad things happen, and why do we have to die. But, dearest Katrina, questioning is a two-edged blade, cutting through ignorance with one side to further science and cutting ourselves with the other as we search for answers that do not exist in the realm of the mortal.



Nature knows better. Nature cares not of why it is here on Earth or of why it was given an opportunity for life; rather, it spends its time soaking in the sun rays and enjoying the days, learning of growth and passing the wisdom in its life on to others as they grow. Nature asks but dwells not on questions of life and death; nature relishes the life it has while it has it. Nature wastes no energy trying to sort through unanswerable questions or pondering why the storms of life sometimes travel through; instead spending its energy living.



Perhaps nature has the truest of wisdom, the wisdom to respect the life we have now. As in many ways, humans could learn much from nature, the respect nature has for life often being a lesson eluding humans.



As humans search for answers, we spend our time--time that can never be returned to us--worrying about pasts we can never change and wondering about events beyond our control or consciousness. Yet, we search and we wait for answers to arrive and, meanwhile, our time slips away.



Humans should be living as nature, Sister, contemplating unanswerable questions but not submitting to them or allowing them to control our time. Time is the greatest commodity humans have; without time life is nothing, for time is the first requirement for change.



Always,
Christina





This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.

Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated October 1

October 1
Katrina,



It still seems strange how you were bedridden by the fever and I had barely a cold. We usually became ill at the same time, sleepy at the same time, we usually thought the same jokes were funny and the same stories sad. Yet, there you were, a small child of six years lying there in your bed, fighting for your life, and all I could do was watch. Mother and Father and Betsy hovered over you constantly, giving you medicines and keeping you warm or fighting the fever with ice baths, all of them distraught, worried, fearful of losing you. Once, I saw Mother crying by your bedside when she did not realize I was watching. “Why my Katrina, why Katrina,” she repeated over and over again, but the tears that fell upon your blankets did not soothe your fever.



They kept us apart most of the time to protect us both. But once in a while they would let me sit by your bed, and I would hold your hand and tell you stories of the animals in the fields, reassuring you that you would be all right as I held a compress to your forehead. We were sisters, the best of friends, and I felt powerless to help you, unable to take the fever from you, unable to make you or Mother or Father or Betsy feel better. So, I would sit by you, when allowed, and talk to you, believing that somewhere within your spirit, somehow, you could hear me, one sister to another, and feel the hope of The Oak surrounding you, strengthening you.



For nearly a week, everyone prayed and hoped, diligently doing all things possible to bring you through the sickness. And, then, finally, one day, like a sunrise you simply sat up in bed, the fever gone, and the rays of sunlight beaming through the window and dancing about on the floor. No one could really explain it, but we didn’t care to as long as you were alright and back with us. The doctor said that the fever put a strain on your heart but, if it did, it never showed, seeing as though you were back to yourself in no time, running through the fields with me, having tea time, and searching for shooting stars at night. And I was thrilled and relieved to have my sister back with me.



One would think that I would have learned my lesson then.



Sisters,
Christina






This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.



Read articles by Debra Phillips at www.associatedcontent.com.

Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated September 28

September 28
Katrina,



Is it any wonder, Katrina, that a child is the greatest gift of hope that one can receive since children are born of goodness and innocence, hope and promise for the future; since a child is a soul that knows nothing of the world but trust and love. For months, a child rests in the womb, nourished by the mother, sleeping safely within her walls of protection. Then, at birth, the child knows the protective arms of the mother, trusting completely in this older, wiser being to care for any need that may arise.



For months, a mother carries within her womb a child, feeling movement, feeling kicks, and sensing love, feeling changes within her as the child grows. Then, at birth, a mother looks upon a child as a welcomed stranger, an angel sent as a gift to the mother, a miracle the mother cannot comprehend and science cannot truly explain.



A child is born with no knowledge or concern for money or wealth, for hate or war, for color or gender or privilege. Instead, a child is born craving love and hope, learning and exploration, and laughter, looking about in each new moment to see how the world has changed and searching for something at which to smile. Children are born good, Sister, for no mother has looked upon her newborn child in terror, frightened of an evil she had delivered.



And, as a child grows, they learn that which is taught to them by mothers and by strangers and by all. Goodness and badness and all things in between are written upon a slate reminding the child throughout his or her life of rights and wrongs and gray areas. And, as a child continues to grow, more people write upon the slate, providing guidance of one type or another, information to be organized forever in an invisible notebook of life experiences. And, soon, the child begins writing on the slate as well to be certain that no experience is forgotten and others emphasized. And, by the time the child reaches adulthood, society can only hope that all those who have written on the slate have done so in such a way that the column of hope, of love, of kindness, and of goodness total greater than that of the column of despair and sorrow.



Children are like the fields, Katrina. They must be tended with care or ruin will result. But where tenderness and care are provided, beautiful flowers will bloom and fields will flourish.



Sisters forever,
Christina





This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.



Messages From The Heart, a collection of poems and verses authored by Debra Phillips, is now available in print at www.wordclay.com and in download format at www.lulu.com.

September 25, 2008, Letters Home

September 25, 2008



Thank you for visiting Letters Home.



Letters Home is a novel written in three sections. Section I, entitled The Letters, consists of a series of letters written by the character Christina Allgood as she writes of her life and of the lessons she has learned in letters to her twin sister, Katrina. Sections II and III are written in typical prose format, detailing the reaction to the life and death of Christina Allgood and of the startling power of the magnificent Allgood home, The Oak, a magical and mysterious estate where the walls seem to breathe and the trees about the property are protective.



Join Christina, age ninety-nine years and the last Allgood family member to live at The Oak, as she discusses the trials and triumphs of her life, as she contemplates the questions with which she struggles, and in her search for answers. Then, join the house staff at The Oak as they are confronted with the darkness that was kept at bay by the Allgood family.



Again, thank you for visiting Letters Home.



Have a wonderful day.






This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.




Messages From The Heart, a collection of poems and verses authored by Debra Phillips, is available in print at www.wordclay.com and in download format at www.lulu.com.





Letters Home © 2007

Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated September 23

Portions of this post may not be suitable for younger readers. Discretion is advised.



If you or someone you know is a victim of violent crime, report the information immediately to your local law enforcement agency and seek out counseling, information, and assistance at local social service organizations for victims of violent crimes.




This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.





September 23
Katrina,



Just as nature interacts so that all of its elements are tended to, people are dependent on each other as well. But, unlike nature, people don’t always accept their responsibility to the rest of the human race, not understanding the true impact one can have on another, unconcerned with the effect that they have an another life.



Someone, saddened for any reason, walking down any street anywhere, can be cheered simply by the smile of a stranger passing by, the nodding of the head of a clerk, or the bright eyes of a mother carrying her child. Everyone, even strangers, affects other beings around them, silently or loudly changing thoughts, feelings, and perspectives. To someone pondering death, the smile of a stranger on the street may change their mind and erase their plans. To someone content or happy, the lost expression in the empty eyes of a stranger may turn happiness to sadness or fear. To someone feeling unlucky, seeing someone overcoming his or her own difficulties can change the feeling of misfortune to fortune, to possibility. It’s all related, interconnected.



But, when the apathy for the value of the lives of others sinks to its lowest form, when the lack of concern for any other is gone, the result is violence, violence at its worst, violence in an undeniably evil form.



I was twenty-seven, and yet I did not recognize Hell walking up the drive to The Oak one Sunday afternoon. Disguised as a man with a smile upon his face, evil walked up to me and I recognized it not. But, then, the drink can cloud the eyes, the judgment. Perhaps if I had not been at Joe’s Tavern that Friday or any Friday before, evil never would have seen me, found me, sought me out, and broken the sanctity of The Oak. But, then, perhaps I was the one who had broken the sanctity of The Oak long before that day.



As children, the boundaries of The Oak were as a fortress that evil, sorrow, and pain could not break through. The trees stood guard, their limbs pointing to each other of any possible intruders, intertwining their branches to prevent entry. But, the trees were under the careful watch of a good man, a good leader, our Father, and reckless had I become with the emotions and thoughts that were allowed passage through the front gates.



The Oak seemed empty of people that day, a lazy Sunday afternoon that was perfect for being with loved ones. I was outside tending to flowers along the front porch when I felt an uneasy breeze blow nearby, when I looked down the drive and saw him coming nearer. Instinctively, I looked up toward the angel standing guard at the attic for guidance, and it seemed as though a teardrop fell.



Must one travel to the end of a road before being allowed to change? Do demons feel an incorrigible need to fight for what they feel belongs to them?



His name was Steven, I learned, as he approached and began speaking. I remembered him vaguely from Friday night at Joe’s Tavern, but had either known not his name or had forgotten it in the blur of the drink. After a long walk from town, though uninvited, I felt obliged to at least speak to him for a while, offer him rest on the porch and a glass of water. As he settled in on the porch, I went inside to fetch the water, continuing to notice how strangely vacant The Oak seemed on this day, and then I returned to him.



We spoke of the local community, which he seemed to know little about having just hitched in from a place with a name he could not recall. Perhaps his lack of recollection was because of the drink of which he mentioned being fond. We spoke of Joe’s Tavern, and he expressed also having plans to stop drinking, to settle down. We spoke of world events, of wars past and wars on the horizon, we spoke of romances and glory lost, and, as the hours passed, I seemed to forget the vacancy of The Oak and the uneasiness I had felt upon his arrival.



He seemed nice enough, lacking in harsh words or tones, and his clothing, though old and worn, showed signs of care and concern for his appearance. So, just before sunset when he suggested a short walk, I agreed, though I knew the season and the weather well enough to know that the clouds would likely restrict the stars and hide the moon.



We walked through the field, his steps acting as though they knew this land, familiar with the positioning of stones and water. And, the night grew darker.



As we continued to walk, we talked of this and that and of the history of The Oak. When I began telling him that I felt we should return to the house, he circled around me and put a gun to my body. I heard the trees shake as the wind picked up force, angry at what I had allowed on this hallowed ground. I felt the gun there, pushing into my side just before he pushed me to the ground; his voice changing, becoming angry, resentful, hateful, deadly. He lowered his weight upon me and, from face down in the dirt, I managed to turn over and began to swing my fists at whatever I could hit. He continued to scream at me, ranting, his rage growing with each word. In the darkness, in the struggle, I felt my head hit with something heavy, though I’m not sure if it was a stone or a fist. I made contact with his body with my fists from time to time and tried to push him off at others, but it seemed to have no impact as he ripped at my skirt and tore at my soul. My hand searched the ground for anything to use as a weapon, finding the gun. And, a shot exploded into the air. And, I felt myself hit in the head.



I woke there in the field the next morning, my dress torn and covered in blood. The trees looked down upon me in confusion of what had happened in their field, their leaves seeming to hang low, weeping for me. The gun was still in my hand and the rock that had been forced against my head was sitting beside me. Through dizzy, blurry eyes, the precious stone appeared to have been crying blood to have been used in such an evil manner. My hair felt matted and, after putting a hand to it, realized that it was matted with blood, blood that also ran across my face from the wound caused by the rock at the hairline. I had not been shot, yet pain blared throughout my body like a siren and it was difficult to move. And, Steven was nowhere to be found.



I just laid there, unable to move for the pain, until mid-morning when a field worker found me and carried me home. Betsy spoke to the field worker who found me, instructing him to tell no one. Then Betsy cleaned me up and tended to my wounds, ordering bed rest, keeping cloths smothered in herbal mixtures on my head wound, and keeping salve on cuts and bruises and scratches. Betsy had me consume regularly a liquid she had brewed containing a vile taste and a smell reminiscent of vinegar and horse manure being rolled around in rotten eggs, but Betsy was adamant that it would help me to heal. Together, we decided not to call the doctor or the sheriff, for we did not want anyone to know of this ordeal; the humiliation would be too much and would ruin my reputation, the reputation of The Oak, and Father’s business dealings. We would have to wait and see, she said, if there would be a baby, adding that, if there were, there were ways to deal with that.



For days, I stayed in bed, getting up at times to eat and to care for one very important task. I spent energy trying to regain my strength, crying, and searching for my spirit. The walls of the room closed in somewhat as if they were protecting me from harm, but the sun hid from me. And, I needed my Sister.



Betsy and I took the gun, the bloody rock, and the bloody clothing, shoving them into a laundry bag and then into a metal box. And, the box we carefully hid inside the wall leading to Father’s office so that no one would ever be able to find it, so that no one would ever know.



About a week later, my embarrassment and emotional pain were still great but my wounds were healing and my physical strength was returning. Business meetings had been canceled, the excuse of illness being provided as reason, and The Oak was basically able to run itself. I looked through the window of the grand entranceway onto the front porch one morning, and then looked to the strength of the front doors. Steven had never made it inside because the house knew--The Oak knew--and such evil cannot pass through the doors of hope. It was a couple of weeks before I was ready to go back on the front porch, and then only venturing there with the strength of Betsy beside me. But, finally, once there, the sun shined on me again as if welcoming me back home.



Two weeks after the incident, a field worker came to the house. They had found a body out in the fields. Having to know, Betsy and I followed them to the place where the body lay, and there was Steven, dead, a gunshot would to his chest and dried blood covering his clothing. From the location of the body, it appeared as though Steven had been running for the border of The Oak, his foot becoming entangled in the intertwined roots of some trees where the forest grew deep, causing him to fall and hit his head on a large root. That he bled to death was Betsy’s theory, and with a look of terror upon his face at the time. And, above him, the trees swayed gently, their branches outstretched to Heaven.



The body was turned over to the sheriff, but no evidence was ever found and no one had any information regarding this man or what he might have been doing on the property. And no one has ever reporting missing a man named Steven.



The brightness of The Oak seemed to return to normal after that, the walls attracting more sunlight, the workers about the fields and the house. But, even though The Oak had returned to normal, there was something of a cloud about me that remained. Though at times I was able to see the sun and appreciate its grandeur and warmth, to accept its comfort, there were also times I felt loss and unease. Much time passed before I felt comfortable enough to roam this property alone as I did as a child, and yet I’ve never returned to that particular part of the field.



If there was a baby, I’ve never been sure. In my bed one night, I screamed for Betsy to come help me and, with a painful cry, my body expelled a bloody mess just after Steven’s body was found. But Betsy kept it from me, explaining that it was in my best interest not to know, not to see. She wrapped it in a sheet and after I, weak from blood loss, made it to the window, I saw Betsy and a field hand bury it, sheet and all, by the old oak tree near the lake.



Hope lives here at The Oak, Sister. Father built it that way. Father used to say that it was the good spirits of The Oak that kept the workers happy to be here, that kept the place running smoothly and growing strong. Is it possible, Katrina, that The Oak protects its inhabitants as much as it can, considering that all things in life, all beings, all creatures, all living things are interconnected?



The world was different then, Kat. The world was different then. I wanted so much to talk to you, my Sister, about how I felt, about what had happened to me, and about what I had done, but I could not find the Sister I knew here at The Oak when we were children. Now, I realize that you were there, but I could not see you for my pride was as a heavy curtain that I did not push aside to look for you.



One is never the same after such an experience, the nightmare returning from time to time and the trust of others and of the self never fully returning. Betsy acted as my adviser as I tried to heal my soul, and after Betsy died I was left alone holding the secret and trying to repair the seams of my spirit that had been ripped apart. I’ve often wondered, Katrina, if I did something to deserve what happened. Was I being punished for some wrong I had done, I’ve wondered. Did my anger towards you, perhaps, or the hardening of my heart somehow invite such evil to The Oak, to me? And, sometimes, when my heart is open and I see the sun and remember what happened, I wonder if Steven began his life as a happy child running through fields of wildflowers, but later drawn from the light by despair until his heart was torn from him and he had no light left within at all. And, somehow, in those moments, I feel forgiveness for Steven, sorry for the pain he must have felt within. Is that where violence begins, Kat, as a seed of negativity, emotional turmoil, fertilized by sorrow and despair until any concern for life is gone completely?



Was I wrong? Was my action as equally violent as his, followed by a secret equally as evil? Katrina? Is there truly forgiveness for everyone? Sister?



Forever,
Christina





This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.




Education, information, counseling, and additional assistance is available to victims of violent crimes at social service organizations that can be usually be contacted by local or toll free numbers. If you've been the victim of a violent crime or if you know someone who has, report this information to the local law enforcement agency and contact a social service organization for assistance.