Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated September 11

September 11
Katrina,



We named them Betsy and Abigail after the two most prominent women in our lives. It was late in our seventh year when the rag dolls were received in the post, and we were so proud to see them addressed specifically to us, Katrina and Christina Allgood, the letters neatly printed on the package of brown tied with string. How excited we were when Mother handed us the package and told us that it was a gift from Grandmother Smith, the grandparent Mother always said I most favored, a strange comment since you and I appeared the same. It wasn’t our birthday, the hot August sun reminded us of that, but the confusion regarding why we would receive a gift this time of year did not dampen our enthusiasm.



I held on to Whiskers as Mother cut the string and you gently opened the box, pulling back the paper carefully and slowly so as not to rip it, my anticipation at what could possibly be inside growing, and even Whiskers trying to lend a paw to hurry the opening of the box.



Then, there they were, two rag dolls laying side by side in the box. They were nearly identical in appearance of green eyes, big smiles, and yellow hair; each with a white dress, a red tulip on the apron of one and a blue tulip on the apron of the other. You chose the doll with the red tulip while I chose the blue, and I remember feeling the comfort of the stuffing inside the doll as I held it, cradling the doll in my arms after Whiskers had jumped inside the box to investigate and then to nap.



There, sitting on the floor of the grand entranceway, we held the dolls and pretended as though they were our children. Together, it was decided that Mother would help us in preparing proper thank you notes to Grandmother Smith. While speaking of what we might say in the notes, we asked again why Grandmother Smith would send us gifts when it wasn’t our birthday, especially since Grandmother Smith wasn’t fond of giving gifts to children without legitimate reason. Mother finally explained that Grandmother Smith had not been feeling well lately and that, sometimes, when people don’t feel well they like to do nice things for others. We didn’t really understand, but we would in time.



We loved those dolls, and carried the dolls and Whiskers with us everywhere we went, through the fields or to the lake. We would carry the dolls in our arms or in a picnic basket; wrapped in blankets or with an old bottle. They slept on pillows next to our own and Abigail, the name of your doll, was usually positioned in the rocking chair while Betsy, the name of my doll, preferred sitting in the window. The dolls would join us for tea and cookies and we would pretend that they would have conversations about Whiskers or the animals in the fields.



Mother never seemed very fond of our dolls. She explained once that she had had a doll like ours when she was a little girl, adding that she had cherished it dearly. When asked what had happened to it she would never say, but she often warned us not to get the dolls dirty because dolls too dirty to come clean must be discarded. So, we took great care to keep Betsy and Abigail’s white dresses without flaw, quickly asking for help to wash out any minor spot when they occurred.



The thank you cards sent to Grandmother Smith, one from each of us, were quite sophisticated, Mother’s stylish handwriting upon cards of white with yellow flowers drawn in the margins. We signed them, as did Mother, and they were placed in the post, but not before Mother added her own letter to the bundle. I’ve always wondered what she wrote to Grandmother Smith or why she did not share it with us.



Father had been away serving the country at the time the dolls were received, and when he returned home in November we told him the story, providing all the details about the packaging and the thank you cards and how the dolls were with us always. He laughed as he always did.



Christmas came and went, as did our birthday, and cards and candies were sent and received. Then in late January we received the news of Grandmother Smith passing. Though the weather was difficult and bitterly cold, we were allowed to attend the funeral with Mother and Father, the dolls in our arms as we stood by her grave as icy snow fell about us. Later, while people enjoyed refreshments at the Smith home, we overheard people talking about lost opportunities; about Grandmother Smith being so alive in her youth but also about how marriage to Grandfather Smith seemed to change her; about time; most of it simply confusing our youthful minds until we weren’t certain if people loved or hated Grandmother Smith.



It all makes more sense now. Yes, much more sense, age and life experience lending a hand to understanding.



When we returned home, we placed the dolls in a location where they, like Grandmother Smith, would be cared for and watched over with hope and love. And, when I remember Grandmother Smith, I remember the dolls, fabric and yarn sewn with good intentions and heartfelt wishes, and the peaceful, hopeful snowflakes falling about her grave.



Sisters forever,
Christina




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




Messages From The Heart, a collection of poems and verses authored by Debra Phillips, is available in print at www.wordclay.com and in downloadable format at www.lulu.com.