Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated July 5, 1999

Let the character of Christina Allgood share the story of her life through her Letters Home.




July 5, 1999
Katrina,


If these walls could talk, Katrina, what would they say? Perhaps they would speak of two young children, sisters, playing tea, teddy bears carefully positioned in the opposing seats as conversations were held, duplicates of the ones we had with Mother regarding the appropriate manner by which to eat a biscuit. Or, would they speak of slightly older children in the grand entranceway as when Mother was teaching us how to waltz, possibly explaining what a graceful and elegant dancer you were? Perhaps they would speak of the parties that were held within The Oak or the times Father was welcomed home from duty or the expression of humorous horror on Mother’s face when Whiskers, who had gotten caught in the fields in a downpour and had become frightened when chased by a chicken flapping his wings, came running into the house when the door was opened, followed by the chicken, both leaving tracks of mud on the floor and on the furniture before you and I and Betsy and Mother, all running after the animals and screaming, were able to catch those poor, soaked creatures.

When the sun shines in through the windows, the walls seem to embrace the light, holding on to it before sending to the sun smiling stories of laughter from The Oak. This house, somehow, is alive and it is happy, glowing, at moments, from the hope with which Father built these walls. And, once in a while, a thin cloud of mist occurs near one of the walls, or perhaps it is merely dust at stir, as if the walls are working magic, trying to summon the happy spirits that have lived here. But then the mist quickly disappears.

Last night, a memory returned to me in dream, yet it felt as real as this paper before me. Could The Oak, in my old age, be whispering to me of times long ago as I sleep so that my dreams are but happy memories replayed in the current moment but with the senses as they were then?

We were eleven, I recalled in the dream, when one of the field workers found the rabbit, its back leg broken and leaving him unable to walk very well. Father allowed us to go with him to the quarters where the workers resided to see the rabbit, to offer aid to the small animal. Together, we sat beside the rabbit, scratching him behind his ears and rubbing his belly, holding him gently and trying to keep him calm while Father helped the workers to put a small brace on the rabbit’s leg before placing the creature in a small cage for healing. Everyday, we visited the rabbit in the worker’s quarters, feeding him, petting him, and talking to him about the woods and his rabbit family and life at The Oak until he was well enough to hop on his own again. In the dream, I could feel the softness of his fur, the tickling of his whiskers, the way he wiggled his nose in response to what we were saying, and the way he used his paws to help himself eat. The rabbit’s eyes seemed so alive, so real, just like they did then, a vibrant shade of blue. And, when it was time, we went with Father to release the rabbit back into the woods where he belonged, released him so that he could return home to his family. When he exited his cage, he hopped only a few steps before turning to thank us with those beautiful blue eyes, then returning his focus for home he hopped off into the woods.

And, there you stood, as real as when it occurred, at the edge of the oak tree near the water on a summer day with the breeze slightly blowing through your hair, your head hung down slightly, your hands folded, saying a little prayer for the rabbit and wishing him well. And, then, the strangest thing happened. I remember that then, as you looked up from your prayer on that day, you waved goodbye to the rabbit and we returned to the house, Father by our sides explaining to us about how the rabbit belonged in the woods and reassuring us of the rabbit’s safety as he patted his hands on our shoulders. And, as you looked up from your prayer in my dream, I saw your green eyes sparkling in the sun, your smile generous as you looked straight to me, just as if you were here before me now like this pen, and you said, “I said a little prayer for you, too, Christina.” It seemed so real, as if time had been reversed and there we were, until that moment when you called my name and I awoke here, in the present day, and missing my Sister.

It is no surprise, though, that I should remember such a scene, so many of them existing in our childhood, Katrina. In your heart, you felt only kindness, a nurturing instinct for all around you. As a child, you would help tend to the sick animals, petting them so that they knew they were loved, and you would make certain that you and I and the teddy bears all had equal shares of cookies at tea time. You, I remember, were the first to begin wishing visitors Happy Holidays each year and the last to stop wishing them Happy New Year. Even as a toddler, yet to speak, you would put your tiny blanket over Father if he fell asleep in his office or present Mother with a bouquet of wildflowers picked from the field as Mother walked with us. You spirit, Sister, was bright, and giving of its brightness, and brightness, it was, that returned to you.


Forever Sisters,
Christina




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