Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated August 7

August 7
Katrina,



I feel remarkably refreshed this day, Kat. The August sun rose early and bright. The field workers are saying that the summer has been perfect weather and that the harvest should be plentiful this year. A rare thing it is, Katrina, for farmland to be blessed by perfect weather. Well, in all my years, I can’t recall a single year that has been described as perfect weather.



I dreamed last night of Mother, how beautiful she was, how peaceful her expression even in her final hours. I dreamed of her laughter, her smile, the way she would look out the window with glee when she heard Father coming up the drive, quickly adjusting her hair before opening the door, always so happy to see him.



I am so sorry that you weren’t here in those weeks before Mother’s death, Katrina, unable to share in an experience unlike any other, unable to share the experience of traveling with someone along their journey to death, of having to let go at the final door. It was difficult, yet somehow I would not trade that experience for the world. Between us, Katrina, that time I was the lucky one; and Betsy too, as we nursed Mother with medicine and soup and clear, cool water. Each morning, I would read to Mother her favorite Bible passages and each day, when she was strong enough to speak, she would dictate letters to me, information on how to run the farm and memories that she did not want to be lost to the world. Those letters are still in Father’s desk, Sister, where they were placed after you read them after Mother was buried.



There was so much going on during that time. You and Robert had been living on the coast for some time, having moved there after your wedding, and you with your second child on the way when you received the news of Mother passing. The world was still at war, possible compromises being pushed aside, and I was sending letters weekly to George as he fought on the battle lines so that he knew there was someone here at home wishing him well. Once in a while, when he was able, he would write to me. Although he and I didn’t really know each other that well before his leaving, we seemed to learn of one another in those letters. At least, he got to know me.



George and I spoke at times before he enlisted just after Father died. He told me once, in the barn when I went to check on a sick cow and found George cleaning out the stalls, of his dream to own a farm of his own; a respectable goal for anyone. But, being young and somewhat reckless, and planning on the money he would earn in the military assisting him in reaching his dream, George enlisted, almost immediately boarding the train to war, to another land, to an uncertain future.



I was infatuated with George from the moment I first saw him, though why I could never explain. For George to notice me was my dream then and, after Father left for war and you married, George and I shared a few walks and a few conversations, but we never spoke of the future. Yet, I quickly lost my heart to him as he spoke of things he had done and planned yet to do. But, George had his work to do and I had other responsibilities. Then, shortly after Father died, George was gone to fight. It didn’t seem fair.



How I wished you had been here during those times to talk to. My heart was both full of pride and broken as I stood on the platform and waved goodbye to George as he left, praying silently for his safe return. From the stairwell of the train car, George asked me to marry him and, in surprise--since the subject had never come up before--I could only yell to him that I would. Love, at last, had arrived but was leaving; I was joyful, but heartbroken.



Overwhelming, it seemed at times, with you away in your new life, Father gone, and George at war. And, Mother, well, Mother just wasn’t quite the same as she had been before Father’s death. Sometimes I wonder if her death was a relief to her, not because it ended her suffering from pneumonia but because it ended her separation from Father. I’ve always found it ironic that the bloody war that took Father away just before his birthday ended shortly after Mother died, almost as if it had served its purpose in their lives.



Yet, everything happens for a reason, doesn’t it Katrina? Even the events we’re not fond of experiencing? Everything contains a lesson for one to learn, an opportunity to grow.



I miss Mother’s laughter, how it would echo softly as if an angel was nearby mimicking the sweet sound, and the pretty feeling that is saved for the experience of laughter alone. And, I think often of the joy within Father’s laugh, the way his eyes would light up with laughter. Somewhere, Katrina, I believe that they are together, somewhere, laughing.



I must go for now, Katrina. The day is nearing an end as streaks of amber paint the sky and, down the hall, I hear the faint whisper of laughter.



Always,
Christina




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