Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated September 15

September 15
Katrina,



These September days are transitioning time, altering the seasons, warm days and cool nights intermingling until the cool nights, hour by hour, take over the days in their entirety. Like a bridge, the connection between the seasons of time is unmistakable, and it is a bridge that must be crossed, for the winter of life is a necessity for growth. Soon, the leaves of golden reds and yellows will blanket the Earth again, a natural patchwork quilt made of love and with great determination for spring.



My hand grows weaker, it seems, and my heart grows worried. Have I made the right decision, Kat, about The Oak? Will it be cared for when I’m gone as Father would have wanted? As I want? I wonder.



Most things are in order, a will is in place, a knowledgeable staff of people who have dedicated their hearts to The Oak to remain. Still, when I’m gone they may find a few surprises left behind should they happen upon them.



Do you recall the time capsule we created as children, Sister? Buried in the ground like the seed of the mighty oak, on the eastern side of the house facing the rising sun, is a small metal box that was our own; a box containing ribbons so that we would always have pretty ribbons for our hair, a coin from each of us so that we would have good fortune in our future, a bookmark so that we would always have books to read, a wildflower so that there would always be beautiful flowers, and a picture of us so that we would always be together. Each of us blessed the box with a kiss and buried it, Whiskers with us there and curious about what we were doing.



And, Whiskers... we can’t forget that Whiskers is buried in an oak box that Father made and respectfully buried near the great oak tree that rises tall by the water. In the box with Whiskers we buried his favorite ball of green yarn. Do you remember, Sister, watching Father dig the hole, the three of us saying a blessing over Whiskers as Father shoveled the dirt over the box?



In the room we used to share still sit our childhood trinkets, our teenage diaries that we would read to each other in the quiet of the night, wildflowers and roses still pressed between pages. On the shelves are the angel sculptures and music boxes, gifts from parents and grandparents. Stuffed animals still sit upon the rocking chair in the corner. On our dresser, silver combs and brushes sit in identical pairs near looking glasses and pretty perfume bottles. And, there, on the window ledge, is the small crystal angel that looks out over the property.



In the attic, beneath a loose board in the floor and in view of the angel looking out from the attic tower, are the rag dolls given to us by our Mother’s mother, dolls that we buried there beneath the oak floor the same day that we saw our grandmother buried. And, in that same attic are trunks filled with our baby shoes, our baby rattles, the dresses we wore as children, and the essays we wrote for our school lessons. Yes, Mother saved it all. Another trunk holds Mother’s wedding dress and Father’s uniforms, clothing that will probably be displayed when I’m no longer here.



And, situated here and there inside the house, beneath loose planks, behind certain paintings, inside of the walls, and within hidden compartments of dresser drawers, are thousands of dollars that Father had had in his safe when he left for war. The cash remained there at the time of Mother’s death. And, after George left, I decided to find a much more safer location for some of the cash than a safe. Where else but a safe would a crook expect to find money? So, I redistributed the cash about the house, telling no one of its locations. But, I find humor and some comfort knowing that when I’m gone, should they ever do construction or repairs in the proper location, should they ever happen to stumble across a treasure, they will be rewarded with Father’s money.



I have no qualms regarding these memories of ours being on display in the future; the visitors here seem respectful of the past and of the people who have lived within these walls and passed through these doors. But, mostly, I hope that visitors find some information of value here, leaving The Oak with a new understanding of the importance of life, the importance of their life, the importance of time, and the significance of choices.



And, what of you, Sister? Do you mind having your childhood on display, of sharing the days of your childhood with kind-hearted strangers?



Sisters,
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 now available in print at www.wordclay.com and in downloadable format at www.lulu.com.