Abigail’s letters
January, 1920
To my Dearest Daughters,
I have taken to mind to write letters. They shall not, however, be letters to post but letters to leave behind. There is much I wish to say, so much to share. To my darling, Katrina, down on the coast with your husband and child, I miss you terribly. To Christina, it has been you who has learned to tend to the Oak. Your father, how I miss him, my heart still aches for him.
Have I been a good mother to you both? Was I a good wife? I find myself pondering these questions more with each passing day as though forces beyond my imagination are messaging me that the time for review is nearing. Beware, live your lives carefully for you, too, shall fall upon these questions.
Here, at your father’s old oak desk, I look through the window down to the lake. There I see Christina, standing at the edge of the ice, contemplating the Earth and Sky as she so often does. At the edge of the mountain, I see your father’s grave, the tomb where he sleeps peacefully until eternity arrives, now covered in snow. I do miss him so. And, from down the drive, I see Betsy returning with the household supplies as the workers tend to the animals on this sunny, winter day.
Katrina, I look to you to save The Oak though Christina has tended to it. For it is you, Katrina, who has married and bore children, who shall carry on the family legacy. When my time for death arrives and the two of you shall take ownership of the land, do not sell our precious Oak unless you must. This is no ordinary house and it is built upon extraordinary land. Your father built the Oak from hope, working hard to see that hope sustained the walls and the oaks. Selling the property would only invite in unwelcome guests, destroyers of hope, and, surely, that would mean the destruction of us all. Maintain hope, in your heart and in our home. Hope is the key, my Dearest Daughters, to the greatest treasures of the world.
Your Mother,
Abigail
January, 1920
To my Dearest Daughters,
You must be certain to treat The Oak, the property, the house with the respect it deserves. This is no ordinary place. Rather, this is a place of hope and dreams, a place where the veil between this world and the next is very thin, transparent at times as if it is just on the other side of the surface of the lake. Look in to the swirling water and see faces from the past and future returning your gaze. They wait for us.
No, this is no ordinary place. The animals walk about with us, unafraid, comfortable in our presence, comfortable because this is their home. The birds here can speak, so I’m told, though I’ve heard no words within their singing. Yet, since your father died, I’ve heard them singing very little. Deafness, I have taught my ears, unwelcoming the happy tones which we used to listen to together when he was here, home, at our Oak, our little corner of Heaven.
No, this must surely be an extraordinary place for when I peer out the window into the night sky, wondering if your father’s spirit can soar past the moon, I take my finger and move about the stars as I write a letter to him with their light, reminding him that I wait to see him again. I wait, as I always have, here, at The Oak, for his return to me. Will he come for me when it is my time to die? Will his spirit glide up the drive of The Oak and whisper in my ear how much he’s missed me? Will he be with me, holding my hand as I close the final door that cannot be reopened?
The Oak is a very special place, a place where the sun can shine brightly if you wish for it to or the sky can turn dark with clouds upon a single thought. It is a place where voices from people unseen can be heard, where the angels upon the shelves and surrounding the house will watch over us, protect us, and remind us of the happy moments we have shared. The angels will protect this house, they will protect each of us as they protect the world, if we simply ask them to do so.
This place, our Oak, so beautiful, so peaceful, so full of hope and prosperity, surely must be the place that God calls home, the thrown from which he reigns. So, the walk through the door separating this life from the next must be a short one, just through the front door, and over to the edge of the mountain.
Your Mother,
Abigail
January, 1920
To my Dearest Daughters,
Times are different than they were when I was of a younger age. Women have more choices than they used to. The war has seen to that. But, I regret not the life I’ve led. How fortunate I have been in my life, especially where my marriage to your father was concerned.
I wish so much for you both to be able to experience the good fortune I have had, in life and in love. Katrina, so far away yet always in my heart, only a few years into your new life of wife and mother, you seem so happy, so in love. And, in Robert’s eyes I see a great love and admiration for you, a look similar to the one I saw in your father’s eyes for me. Christina, should you finally marry, I wish for you to experience the joy of being of wife, the joy of running a household.
Remember, daughters, that marriage is a commitment that begins before the elegant ceremony, the gown of dreams, or the ordering of the flowers. A commitment begins in the heart, in the mind, long before then. And, death will not suddenly break such a commitment as if selling off a piece of property, simply rewriting a deed. A commitment builds over time, growing with a life of its own, and is not written off so easily.
Commitment is that energy within that makes you want to stay, makes you want to work, make things, even good things, better than they are. Commitment is about standing your ground, remaining a team through the good times and the bad, looking to each other before any other for support, for praise and laughter. Commitment is about striving, striving to make someone else happy, striving to be happy yourself, striving to see things through to the end. Commitment is not always easy, but it is a skill that can be acquired just as I have learned, over the years, from your father about how to manage this property, watching over the workers and making certain that the land, the house, is tended to properly.
Be good women, be strong and godly, and chase the dream to be good wives, to be good mothers. Remain solid in your convictions of faith, hope, and commitment. And, always do your best to keep a home where people are comfortable, at peace, and welcomed. Yes, a home like the Oak, where hope and peace reign and, in my heart, I still hear your father’s laughter and his voice reminding me how much he loves me, his daughters, and his precious Oak.
Your Mother,
Abigail
January, 1920
To my Dearest Daughters,
I wonder at night how much longer I shall be upon this Earth, and I wonder what legacy I have truly left behind. Have I taught you to be good ladies? Have I taught you manners and the art of fine living? Yes, I think I have. Have I taught you your schooling, books and art, mathematics and languages? Yes, I feel I have done that too, and well, I dare say, since you both have grown to be well-spoken and well-educated.
Yet, a part of my heart wonders if I have taught you all you really need to know, if I have taught you about the joy of living. Have I? Only the two of you can truly answer that question. I hope that I have taught you that there is joy to be had, laughter to be felt and heard, and, yes, that there is always hope about you, in these walls, in the faces of the angels, and about the world. I hope that you look back upon your childhood with fondness and not with sorrow or regret. I hope that you have learned that you each have a place in this world as everyone does. But, mostly, I hope that, when I’m gone, you know how I feel about you both, my daughters, my only children, my legacy to the family and to The Oak. It will be your responsibility to carry on this incredible legacy of which we have been a part.
You were born sisters and sisters you shall be for always, no matter of life or death, marriages or address. You are sisters, and sisters should look after one another, laughing together and sharing secrets as you always did as children. Take care of each other, my Daughters, and look out for one another. Together you share a history, and there are parts of your hearts that only the two of you shall ever know, as that is how sisters are.
Could there be any closer sisters than the two of you in your youth, running about the house and fields after your lessons, enjoying all the Oak had to offer? Remember those days as you grow old, and they shall comfort you and remind you to comfort each other. For you are sisters, and there can be no closer friend.
My final wish may be that the two of you always take care of each other and of this wonderful Oak.
Your Mother,
Abigail
January, 1920
To my Dearest Daughters,
I write this letter in these few moments when I find myself strong enough to sit up somewhat in bed. Upon the bible do I place the paper upon which I write, and a fine foundation of words it shall make.
There is a young lady who helps Betsy care for me these days. Though she appears familiar to me, I neither recognize her nor do I know her name. I begin this letter in the manner that I have seen prior letters I have written addressed, though I am uncertain of my daughters. Often, I cannot recall their names and other times I doubt how many children I birthed. Perhaps it is the medication or the fever or, perhaps, my memory is fading or I am simply going mad as the young lady says. She reads to me, this creature, of bible verses I wish for her to read and, when I am unable to write but still strong enough to speak, she writes the words I wish for her to write.
How many children did I mother? For, in my dreams, I see three, though one is a bit curious to me and seems much older than I. Two of the children appear alike, dressed the same in dresses of blue and are quite young, toddlers perhaps. Though I can hear their laughter, I do not know their names. And, the third stands tall, standing behind the younger girls as if a caretaker. Long hair, she has, the color of fertile soil, and dressed in long, flowing robes of fine cotton with ropes of gold tied loosely at her waist. On stones she stands, stones that have enclosed a well. In her right arm, she holds the white rabbit with blue eyes, and held between the front paws of the rabbit is a red rose. Her eyes are dark but kind, and I do not fear her presence. I know not her name, but she speaks to me without words, without a voice, speaking to me with her loving eyes. Is she my daughter? Or, perhaps, my mother? Will my memory return to me when the sun rises again?
When alone with Betsy, and sometimes around the young lady who assists her, I ask for the details of my life. Often, Betsy brings to me photographs and the family bible listing the births and deaths of relatives. The young lady is calm, but nearly in tears during these moments, perhaps saddened that a lady such as I should ask such questions. In the photographs, I have but two children. So, who is the third that hovers, patiently smiling over my children?
Your Mother,
Abigail
February, 1920
To my Dearest Daughters,
There is a rabbit living upon the property that you may remember from your youth, a white rabbit with eyes so blue that they are almost translucent as if he can see into your soul, as if his soul is open to the world, as if he can send you his thoughts, his wishes and warnings, sharing his hope and his strength. Take heed, as your father told you in your childhood, to never harm this rabbit for he is believed to hold the key to the great prosperity of this land, of The Oak.
The rabbit once appeared as your father and I walked through the fields when the house was being built. Twins, we thought it had said as it looked to us with those beautiful blue eyes while sitting upon a tree root. Your father and I laughed, so in love we were that we would imagine a word together. Yet, how surprised we were when twins came to us, a blessing doubled when we held you in our arms.
I have seen this rabbit on the property in other years, on a couple of occasions when I felt lost amongst the trees when I strayed too far from home on a summer walk, and he appeared, pointing me back towards the Oak. Now, he appears to me in dreams, waking my spirit while my body is deep in sleep and walking me through the winter fields though I feel no cold, no ice or snow chilling my skin though it falls about me in showers of winter. In these dreams, he shows me a great many things, things that have past and things yet to come.
The images do not always make sense, flashes they are at times of words and events that I do not understand, people I do not know. Images, they are, of many strangers walking about the property and of darkness falling against the windows. And, Christina, he shows to me Christina as she is now and in times to come, a tearful heart sitting alone at the window, a spirit questioning her place in this world, her faith, though I do not understand why. The rabbit encourages me to speak, but why? Certainly, my daughters know how I feel about them. Need I tell you both?
Your Mother,
Abigail
February, 1920
To my Dearest Daughters,
My daughter, Christina, writes this, my body too weak today to leave my bed. But, there are things I must say.
There is a dark man who comes and goes, a dark shadow appearing in my weakest moments, whispering in my ear tales of despair, reminding me of the times that I’ve failed in my life, of the times I have known pain within my heart. He is powerful, but I try to turn away, turning, instead, to look at the angels upon the mantle in my room and remember the sun.
Times gone by, he shows me, though I sometimes wonder of their accuracy, and promises he makes, mighty promises of vengeance as he reminds me of my anger, my hurt, from long ago. I sense that he is not godly, yet he has a powerful pull of ten thousand horses riding before ten thousand more, but I try to focus on the angels, on the happy memories, and on the God I have tried to follow.
Pain I have known and remember, such as the days and months that your father would be away from home, when he was taken forever from us. Yes, pain I have known. And, pain such as that of a daughter uncertain of her mother’s care and concern, uncertain of her mother’s love, the pain of a father seldom home, business and money luring him away with their pockets full of promises, yet empty of laughter. Yes, and I have bore the pain of learning my lessons alone, looking out my window into a city street filled with people smiling and fluttering about, a city street that seemed so far away though separated only by glass and fears of rebellion. But, I have tried to see that neither of you knew of those pains.
It was your father, a kind and decent man, a man of great patience and commitment, who taught me of love, of hope, of happiness beyond hollow smiles and courteous laughs. How easy it would have been for him to learn of my deficiencies of the heart and turn away. Yet, he remained, hopeful that my spirit would brighten and bloom in the light of his love, and it did.
But, the shadow wishes not for me to remember the love, rather wishing me to focus on the sorrow, the losses of my life. I wish not to follow him, but he is strong and knows my weakest defenses, knows my fears and greatest, deepest, the oldest heartaches. Will I continue to find the strength to continue to keep those negative thoughts at bay, to keep the shadow from overwhelming me in darkness? Heaven help me.
Your Mother,
Abigail
February, 1920
To my Dearest Daughters,
Christina shares with me stories from my youth that I have told to my children over the years. Yet, those are not the questions to which I need answers. My childhood I remember and some recent faces I can recall. Yet, I wonder about other information from my life.
Kevin I always remember, his name, the look in his eyes, the wave of his hair in the wind. Oh, how I miss him. My daughters, Katrina, Christina, I remember as children, as young adults, their names engraved upon my heart forever. But, pieces are missing from my mind. Are my daughters happy? I sometimes wonder where they live, and then recall than one, though I am not sure which at times, lives here with me at The Oak. Are my daughters married? Are they mothers? Would it pain them too much for me to ask such questions? Did I instruct you well in the information you would need in life?
Marry well, my Daughters, as I did, for your husband shall rule over your life and determine, in part, what type of life you shall lead. Your father was a good man, with a kind and generous heart, and a strong work ethic. Never a day needed I worry of how he would care for me, for our family. Never marry a drinking man, one who drinks to excess, my daughters, for he shall swallow your fortunes and spend his days sleeping in fields of regret. And, never marry a gambler, one who risks that which he does not yet have, for he shall steal your pride and play you as the joker. And, never marry the man with angry eyes and a voice of steel, for his fists shall rain over you in storms of hatred and his will will break your spirit.
Marry well, my Daughters, as I did. Marry a man who recognizes the difference between protection of his family and control of them, and then chooses protection. Marry the man who wishes you to continue growing and learning, gently encouraging you and himself to become more today than you each were yesterday. Marry the man with the light in his eyes and your name in his heart, the man who will do what he says and says what he shall do, the man who is good to his word and tender in his speech, the man holding the finances to care well for you but not enslaved to the dollar. Marry the man, my Daughters, who holds your heart in the palm of his hands and holds it up to the sun. Marry, my Daughters, when you find the man who makes you feel as though the sun is above you always and you feel in your heart that there shall be no other.
Your Mother,
Abigail
February, 1920
To my Dearest Daughters,
Hope, my daughters, is the greatest asset there is. Able to buy more luxury than money, able to fill the soul more than accomplishments of business or marriage or life, hope can fill the heart with an unmistakable peace and goodness, a genuine longing for life. Keep hope within your hearts, surround your lives with it as if your very soul depended upon it, because it does.
Hope can be the answer to prayers, the light within the darkness that leads you home. Hope can be what sways you to one decision or another, opting for something positive that can help yourself, something that can help one another. Hope can effect your voice, radiating positive words to others amongst you. And, hope, at its most desperate, can be the difference between life and death, between finding the courage within to commit yourself to another day of life or not.
But, in its most fundamental voice, hope can be your weapon, a sword against the dark shadow, a sword of God forged in the heart of unbreakable strength that can cut through any cloak of negativity, little by very little at times, until you see the sun in its full glory.
Your father built the Oak of walls of hope, a fort of golden wishes designed to protect our family, our dreams, and the hope we found within our hearts. The Oak is a house of light, designed so that the sun can shine in through the windows and dispense through the house to warm the walls, to speak to our souls, and brighten our lives. A constant reminder, this house, of the power of hope, a reminder to keep hope within us and all around us. For as long as there is hope, we have everything. But, if hope is allowed to die, so shall we die with it and the chance for peace.
Always keep hope alive. And, to keep hope alive, one need only feel a small splinter of it in their heart, a tiny light barely noticeable in the darkness. For, hope is like a seed, able to grow from nearly nothing into fertile fields.
Your Mother,
Abigail
February, 1920
To my Dearest Daughters,
Mother is not herself, Katrina. She mumbles at times, though I cannot understand what she says. I read aloud her favorite bible verses as this is her request and it seems to calm her somewhat. Betsy is doing all she can as well, and between the two us we help Mother to rest as much as possible. Her health is poor and her mind is not as it was. She speaks of shadows in the mirror and in the room, though there is nothing there that I can see. She asks me to write these letters, to commit her words to paper, and so I do because this eases her agitation somewhat. She asks for you, and she does not always know who I am. Katrina, when you shall be able to read these letters Mother writes or dictates, you shall see that Father’s death effected Mother greatly. Is this what death is, this process she goes through each day, repeating Hail Marys and the Lord’s Prayer until she finally rests for a while?
Teach your children well, my Daughter. Teach them of hope and of faith and of love. Be certain that they know that you love them and be certain that they know they are valued. Be certain to help them find their place in this world and be comfortable there. Let them know of their history, but help them to chart their own course. Let them know of books and of education and decision-making, but let them develop their mind, form opinions and find answers, decide their own desires, their own dreams.
Teach your children well, my Daughter, of values and principles and ethics. Watch over them and protect them like a shepherd would his sheep, but know that there will come a time when you must set them free, allowing them to decide their own path, looking back upon your lessons yet looking forward to their own future.
Teach your children well, my Daughter, of the value of life and the limits of time so that they will never waste a moment by recklessly giving it away to yesterday, to sorrow, to the well of broken dreams.
Teach your children well, my Daughter, so that they may seek out happiness and find the joy of the world. Be kind so that they will learn kindness. Show mercy so that they will learn to show the same. Have strength and share it with them, so that they will learn by your example. And, always show your love so that they learn to share their heart.
Teach your children well, my Daughter, for they are the future.
Your Mother,
Abigail
March, 1920
To my Dearest Daughters,
At the entrance to the property sit two oak trees, twins it would seem, the locations and angles of their branches appearing the same though the trees are separated by space and Earth and their roots are buried deep beneath the surface. Yet, it is impossible, is it not, for trees to be twins, two born of the same seed?
Your father noticed the unique trees when he acquired the land, long before he showed them to me. But, together, we found the pairing far too encouraging to remain unrecognized. Therefore, we acknowledged and honored their specialty by having them frame the entrance to the Oak, holding the nameplate between them, separating them only by the path leading to the house. And, what a path it was, compared to today. Dirt tracks formed by retraced paths, it was, and often difficult to maneuver in the heavy autumn rains, until the brick was laid.
But, The Oak is today as it was the day building was completed, with the angels guarding the windows and the wood engaging the light. Though furniture, pottery, shiny items of gold, and plush fabrics have been added to the house since its conception, the walls remain the same, strong and full of light, full of hope, allowing the rays of the sun to enter in through the windows and warm the rooms and the hearts of those within.
We built the house here, where it sits, not out of randomness, but of faith. The house sits within sight of the mountain which shades us during part of the summer days, sitting there like royalty watching over the kingdom, and is also near to the fields that provide nourishment to our family. But, primary, the house was built here, where it sits, next to the house garden that was growing upon the land when your father first surveyed the property. Though we have distinguished it somewhat by adding walking paths and stone angels, the flowers, the roses, were here long before us, growing of their own will and adding beauty to the land. How strange, I thought, the first time your father brought me here and I saw the garden, that such incredible blossoms could flourish without assistance. Though I thought, at first viewing, to see an oak tree growing at the center of the garden, its trunk seeming to bear the face of a man, I later realized that there was no sign of an oak tree there at all upon my second visit. And, by then, we had employed a wonderful gardener to be certain the house garden continued to flourish as it always had.
Your Mother,
Abigail
March, 1920
To my Dearest Daughters,
Live your lives, my daughters, so that you have no regrets as I have now, worries over decisions made, sorrow over options not chosen. Have I been a good mother? Was I a good wife? Was I a good daughter when my parents were living?
Painting, I wanted in my youth, to add color to canvas to immortalize a face, an expression, a gleam in the eye. Yet, never once did I pick up a brush, listening instead to the voices surrounding me that felt it improper, an insignificant pursuit unworthy of my time. Yet, what harm would have come? Bury it, I did, far beneath the surface of my mind by the time I met your father, instead focusing on my responsibility to The Oak, to my husband, to my children. Did I err in my decision? Did I fail all of you by neglecting the truth hidden deep within? Here, waiting on death to walk me into the next world, I think I did. How can one fulfill others if they lack fulfillment in their own heart?
In motherhood, in being a wife, I found great fulfillment. Yet, a piece of my heart, from time to time, especially when your father was away, tugged at what never was, at what I thought could never be, as what I thought was buried returned to haunt my desires. But, I dared not invite the dream to life by reaching for a brush, though I think not now that your father would have disapproved. Yet what is said upon the surface often has meanings hidden deep beneath the voice, confusing what is said with what was actually meant, intended, like the subtle shadows of a painting, a second layer of interpretation sometimes going unseen.
Have I encouraged you, my daughters, to be independent thinkers able to form opinions of your own, yet willing and able to fulfill your role as women? Have I helped you to pursue appropriate goals and to be good mothers? Have I taught you to care for The Oak and protect its future? Only time can answer those questions, I suppose.
Should you take any final knowledge from these letters, I should hope that you know that I want you both to be happy, that when it is your time to greet death, I hope that you shall do so without regret, with contentment in your soul and peace within your heart. Be good women, as women should, and do not neglect your destined roles, but also give consideration to your heart.
Your Mother,
Abigail
March, 1920
To my Dearest Daughters,
My death draws nigh. My daughter, Christina, writes these words while I speak as I find my body too weak to sit, my hand too weak to write. Eternity nears, yet I still find myself with so much left to say.
In dreams I have walked, allowed to watch from a distance as great battles are won and lost, as truth and darkness have fought amongst the skies yielding swords of justice, dripping blood of determination. I should think that the darkened reds that cross the horizon at the beginning and end of each day are the streaks of blood from one or the other as the battle continues. Are they real, these images that I see? Are they images past or yet to come? Christina feels I am mad, my mind gone to waste in these final hours. Could it be?
And, The Oak, our precious Oak. There is nothing usual about this land, my Daughters. For, this is a sacred land with great power about it, and I have seen battles of good and evil fought upon this land, our land, and in our house. But, remember, the true legacy of our home does not rest upon the flooring or upon the walls, but with what is left inside, the hope. Never lose sight of the hope, my Daughters, never lose hope or evil shall befall you.
Hope reigns over our land, over the mountains and the trees. It has blessed our house and our lives. But, make no mistake, evil is always nearby, waiting for opportunity to arise from the pit. A great Well of Sorrow sits within our land, a Well unseen, beneath the topsoil, in the depths of the Earth, a great Well that can be opened with the key of despair. Hope is the key that shall keep watch over the evil like a guard minding the cell. And, though evil, despair, can not be completely bottled and kept away from the world in this age, evil seeping out as hardened hearts summon it from the depths, Hope shall keep it at bay and leave you safe from harm.
And, I have been shown in dreams great storms that have past or are to come. Can I really know the difference? These storms, and storms they are, of fierce winds and darkened skies battling with white clouds and yellow roses for possession of our land, of the Well. But, who shall win is up to us. I see the fields, blanketed in blue skies and peace, with birds sweetly singing in the trees and the white rabbit upon the land. I see The Oak, blackened and burnt, darkened, sitting above a swirling ground of ash and beneath a stormy sky of twisters carrying hateful laughter.
And, in the sky are bloodied swords, drops of evil that fall further darkening the house or killing the spot upon the Earth where they land, drops of peace seeding an oak that grows quickly, reaching its branches to the Heavens in gratitude and respect. And, a final blade is passed, severing the dark hand holding its evil grip upon the house and swirling the storms, and a great wailing was heard across the Earth.
And, the hands of hope extend downward through a stormy sky one final invitation.
And, the land beneath the house cracks and creaks as the ashy Well opens, violently shaking the land and swallowing the house with a crunch of each board, unseen teeth crushing into each plank as the house lowers into the bowels of the Earth. The fierce winds are forced downward upon the house, carrying the sounds of screams of fear and rage, howling and moaning and wicked laughter until the house and the blackened winds are buried deep beneath the surface, and the swirling Earth rests, the ash returning to soil, the spot upon the land green with grass, and blue skies quietly smiling above. And, peace shall reign again upon the land.
But, all living beings will decide who wins.
Never lose hope, my daughters. Always, have hope. Always.
Your Mother,
Abigail
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to situations or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and unintentional.
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