Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated October 1

October 1
Katrina,



It still seems strange how you were bedridden by the fever and I had barely a cold. We usually became ill at the same time, sleepy at the same time, we usually thought the same jokes were funny and the same stories sad. Yet, there you were, a small child of six years lying there in your bed, fighting for your life, and all I could do was watch. Mother and Father and Betsy hovered over you constantly, giving you medicines and keeping you warm or fighting the fever with ice baths, all of them distraught, worried, fearful of losing you. Once, I saw Mother crying by your bedside when she did not realize I was watching. “Why my Katrina, why Katrina,” she repeated over and over again, but the tears that fell upon your blankets did not soothe your fever.



They kept us apart most of the time to protect us both. But once in a while they would let me sit by your bed, and I would hold your hand and tell you stories of the animals in the fields, reassuring you that you would be all right as I held a compress to your forehead. We were sisters, the best of friends, and I felt powerless to help you, unable to take the fever from you, unable to make you or Mother or Father or Betsy feel better. So, I would sit by you, when allowed, and talk to you, believing that somewhere within your spirit, somehow, you could hear me, one sister to another, and feel the hope of The Oak surrounding you, strengthening you.



For nearly a week, everyone prayed and hoped, diligently doing all things possible to bring you through the sickness. And, then, finally, one day, like a sunrise you simply sat up in bed, the fever gone, and the rays of sunlight beaming through the window and dancing about on the floor. No one could really explain it, but we didn’t care to as long as you were alright and back with us. The doctor said that the fever put a strain on your heart but, if it did, it never showed, seeing as though you were back to yourself in no time, running through the fields with me, having tea time, and searching for shooting stars at night. And I was thrilled and relieved to have my sister back with me.



One would think that I would have learned my lesson then.



Sisters,
Christina






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



Read articles by Debra Phillips at www.associatedcontent.com.