August 25
Katrina,
As the Earth has a season of growth, of death, and of rebirth, a cycle of life dependent on an ability to re-energize the cells, there comes a time when every soul must have a season of healing, a season for the opportunity to rebirth the soul, to regain hope. The transition from darkness to light, from despair to hope, requires only a single step, yet, like that of forgiveness, it is a difficult step to make.
The light is beckoning to me like a lighthouse in the misty waters, but I look back in time. The light is reaching out to me with the hands of faith, and yet I look back, searching the shadows; shadows that whisper to me about the danger of hope and the heartbreak of disappointment while the lighthouse whispers from ahead the song of peace and the opportunity for joy. There is no joy without the risk of disappointment, but disappointment will hide the opportunity for joy behind dark veils of sorrow. But, stepping into the light means taking a risk, a venture, and leaving behind the dark familiar.
As I look up from this desk, across the fields of clover, and into the lake, I watch the water mirror the sky: I see how the water opens her arms and breathes in the sunlight; but, in darkness, the water also breathes in the moon. The water seeks out the light, reflecting it in her pools, and never denying herself the pleasure of the light, that beam of hope coming from a distance. The water is not afraid of joy, of risking disappointment for the happiness of today; instead smiling, sharing the beauty of the light with all who will look upon her.
All around us are reflections of the light, opportunities for change and growth, each moment being an available season of healing, an opportunity to regain hope. But, moment after moment, year after year, I have repeatedly chosen to remain in the familiar expectation of darkness than to venture near the lighthouse; holding tight to what I know as opposed to taking the risk, a risk that is less than the suffering of darkness, to find joy.
Others have been effected by my decisions, Katrina, haven’t they? No one’s decisions effect only the one, life being too interconnected for that to occur.
I remember sitting on the grand staircase the day of my wedding, reaching out my hand to sorrow as if it were a long lost friend that I had never truly known; drinking it in until my mind was intoxicated with darkness; holding on to it as though I had nothing else in the world; holding on to it as though I was afraid to let go. Though we had lived through Father and Mother’s deaths, illnesses, and other sad events of life, sorrow had never lived at The Oak; the strength, the hope, within these walls keeping sorrow at bay by gathering and reflecting the light of the sun entering the windows, by sharing the light with all who entered this house.
From that point on, sorrow was like a demon that I allowed to stay within, whispering in my ear at every turn of negativity, of all you had and of all I had lost. Then, sorrow gave birth to secrets that whispered echoes of sorrow, and I listened.
We were only twenty-nine, Katrina, when everything changed between us. Can you remember? Your life on the coast with Robert had been flourishing, a son having been born and named for his father and a daughter having been born named for our Mother. I had remained here at The Oak, continuing to care for Father’s business affairs and trying to hold my head high amongst town rumors of George. The two sisters having shared so much in youth had grown older and grown apart, our lives vastly different with you in the role of mother on the coast and my taking a more industrial path here in the mountains. Since Father’s death, we wrote each other irregularly but with lengthy pages when we did write. Every couple of years we would visit, talking for days of how much we had changed.
Your life was full, your children growing, your husband’s business thriving, and your charitable work requiring your time and leaving time for little else. I was so proud of you, Sister, I really was and, somewhere deep down inside, I always have been proud of you and happy for you.
My life here at The Oak I filled with business affairs, intentionally leaving time for nothing else. I buried myself in work, certain that there would be security there. Father’s fortune was barely marked by the loss of the ten thousand dollars, but the money was neither what I missed nor what I needed. Daily, my heart continued to harden bit by bit, determined not to let anyone in, trying to keep my heart safe, ritually practicing the process of turning emotion in to a substance similar to stone. Yes, Sister, I accept responsibility for it was I who darkened my heart.
That same year, Betsy had grown ill, often taking to her bed due to pain in her stomach so terrible that she could not stand. I took care of her the best I could, making certain that she had the best doctors, following the doctor’s instructions for medicines, and keeping a cool compress on her forehead as she and Mother used to do for us. It seemed to go on for months. One day, Betsy had felt strong enough to sit on the porch with me and enjoy the view of a beautiful day. She grew weak, however, and I helped her to her bed. I sat there beside her bed, reading to her until she fell asleep and then I adjusted the blankets to be certain she was warm. After going to the kitchen to prepare some broth, thinking that she may have been able to eat that day, I returned to Betsy’s room and found her dead. The doctor came immediately, but it was too late. Betsy was gone. That great spirit who had spent so much of her life here at The Oak taking care of us, taking care of this house since its creation, and giving to this house the joy of her spirit was gone.
You had journeyed to return for Betsy’s funeral, your children left in the care of their father. While you were here at The Oak, I began to truly notice the maturity you had grown in to, the woman you had become, strong and intelligent in your own right. I was never certain if you felt I had not grown, if you disliked the direction of my life, or if I simply allowed sorrow to adjust your words before reaching me, but arguments began between us over everything from the arrangements for Betsy’s funeral and how the kitchen was stocked to the election of President Hoover; from how we were dressed to whether it was partly cloudy or partly sunny outside. There was so much I wanted to tell you, so many secrets to share, but within this wonderful woman you had become I was unable to find the child of yesterday, the sister I could trust with anything, the sister I needed desperately. When your visit was over, I clenched my teeth and watched as you drove away, my heart hardening still as I mourned the loss of Betsy and the sister I felt you had abandoned.
That was the last time I ever saw you for far, far too long. How I regret those years since then, years I traded for pride and gave away to foolishness. Years without speaking to my Sister, my voice silenced in jealous rages over the life, the love, you had been granted. Those were years when I refused to read your letters and spilled no ink to paper for you. How I regret those years, years that cannot be reclaimed.
In time, your letters stopped, and blame you I can not for finally giving up a battle you had been losing for so many years; both of us left only with the memory of two children, dressed as one, running through fields of wildflowers.
Over all of those decades, the house has battled to retain its hope, still reflecting, sharing, and smiling in the sunlight; but rooms have darkened as I’ve entered, walls quickly wishing sunlight away, hanging their heads, and dimming, as if they feared destruction if they reminded me of brighter days.
The house has grown stronger since then, brighter, less intimidated of me in the last ten years. The walls seem to recognize the opportunities to remind me of the hope and love with which Father built these walls, to remind me of days in the sun and laughter. It is as though the house has waited all these years for me to grow. Now, the house seems unafraid to reach out its invisible arms to me, comforting me like a child in the womb, trying to remind me with sunlight and shimmering walls of the opportunity for rebirth, of the opportunity to regain hope.
Ten years ago, when I had heard rumor that you were very ill, I picked up the pen; persuaded by the memory of those children running together and laughing in the wildflowers to talk to you; finally listening to the voices in my head that whispered songs of peace; finally realizing that, as a child and as I’ve aged, my heart has wanted much love and joy for your life. It was happiness that I've always wanted for you; yet I was angered when you received it. I did not realize it, then, that it was I who was causing you pain, heartbreak; but I realize it now. Did I wait too long? Are all acts allowed forgiveness, Sister? Are you sure?
Sometimes, in fleeting seconds, I think I hear those two little children in this room, laughing, and the scent of wildflowers floats in on the breeze.
Are you sure, Katrina?
Your loving Sister,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
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