Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated August 8

August 8
Katrina,



Sister, I feel I am growing ill. Today, in the new morning light, a ceramic angel with white and blue painted robes and wings of white and pink, sitting upon a bookshelf keeping watch about the room, seemed to come to life; her wings fluttering, growing a bit, her head turning toward me with a peaceful glance and a trusting smile. I blinked, and she returned to the way she has always been. Perhaps it was merely the August heat having an effect on my mind. In whatever case, it was not a frightening experience, but rather a glorious one. The angel seemed to have Mother’s face.



I miss you, Sister. Sometimes, when I forget the presence of a mirror, I think I see you there inside the frame like a picture that had come to life. Then I realize that it is only my own reflection. Yet, there are days when I sort through old photograph albums that I swear I hear your voice calling to me from down the hall, inviting me out to play as we did when we were young. And, when I dream, I dream of us running through fields of wildflowers. Then, I awake with the taste of sourdough bread on my tongue and the sound of your voice echoing in my ears as if you had actually been here in this room; as if, for a brief time, we had turned back the clock and relived our moments in the sun.



Always,
Christina




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