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.