October 25
Katrina,
The house is quiet today, dear, most of the staff and field workers in town enjoying the fall festival this year. Here, at The Oak, I am left with my memories of the past and this beautiful view of the property. In all these years that I have been writing to you, Sister, visiting you, did I ever tell you about Thomas?
It was the day after our thirty-eighth birthday, Kat, and the museums and art galleries had been buzzing over the improvements to film that allowed color to be expressed in the photograph. More alive than ever seemed the faces, the places captured in those prints. And, I had finally decided to take photography as a hobby, a hobby that I desperately needed so that my life would no longer be filled completely with work, a hobby I had finally decided I deserved.
A Saturday, it was, when I went to the art gallery and saw a color photograph of a fall tree, and it was in that moment that I made the decision to purchase photographic supplies. Even if I only took photographs of The Oak or the old oak tree by the water, I wanted to try; and for once I felt capable of trying. How is it, Sister, that someone who makes important business decisions each day, decisions effecting people and money and lives, could, at the same time, feel so completely incompetent and incapable?
Not the first clue did I have about buying such equipment other than what I had read in literature. I asked the director of the museum, a man who was familiar with me due to our family contributions to the museum, and he recommended one of his assistants, an amateur photographer. And, that was when I met Thomas.
Thomas was a nice man, just a bit older than us but sharing the same birthday. Together, he helped me to choose all of the appropriate gear that I would need to begin, slides and boxes and tripods and more. Over time and visits to the museum, he began to explain in more detail about choosing the best lighting, about framing the subject being photographed, about distance and shadow and backgrounds. Thomas seemed so intelligent about photography and much more excited about the art than the books I had read.
He was employed as an assistant to the director of the museum, but took photographs on weekends and when time allowed. If he traveled, he took photographs. If the season changed, he took photographs. For no reason whatsoever than his passion for the art, he took photographs. A few of his photographs hung in the museum, but he had found little professional success with his pictures.
I took the hobby seriously, trying to learn what I could about taking those types of photographs I had seen in the museums, the pictures that contained emotion that spoke to the viewer as if the photograph had a voice that would not be silenced as long as the image existed. Outside, I would be, when business obligations had been cared for, setting up photographs of the areas that spoke to me, the lake with its swirling mirror of the world, the fields with their lives that vary with the season, the old barn with the character of a friendly but grumpy old man with many stories to tell, and The Oak, its dignity ever present, its stories endless.
Over the next couple of years, Thomas made periodic visits to The Oak, assisting me with photographing the landscapes, the house, the old oak tree by the water. He agreed that the property contained beautiful scenery for photographs and took a few of his own photographs of the entranceway, the drive up to the house, and the trees.
In time, I began to ask him to stay for lunch when the hour neared and he was on the property. Informal yet somehow impersonal lunches, like that between a teacher and a student, melted over time into lunches more personal, more revealing of information. Although I told him little, for there was little I was willing to share, he told me of his life, his childhood, and his travels. He was pleasant to be with and interesting to talk to. I found myself, on some occasions, quite taken with him and, on other occasions, doubting every word he said, wondering if George had returned in another body for no other reason than the knowledge that he could take advantage.
Thomas presented himself as trustworthy, and the director of the museum trusted Thomas without doubt or hesitation; but I never fully trusted anyone in those days, including Thomas. But, over time, little by little, I found myself feeling comfortable in his presence, comfortable in the sense of honesty and safety.
During the later part of those couple of years, I agreed to attend and enjoyed evenings out at local restaurants and theaters with Thomas and even began to have a few rare gatherings again at The Oak for business associates or charitable events. During the later part of those couple of years, laughter returned to the dining room and the grand entrance room, and the walls applauded the sunlight shining upon them as the audiences applauded the actors in theatrical productions.
And, during that time, Katrina, I spoke to Thomas of you, your marriage, and the changes in our relationship. It was Thomas who, like an angel sent to me, encouraged me to go to you, to talk, to try to regain such an important heart I had sent away. I thought much of you, of contacting you, of trying to change the past, yet I never did so.
Thomas was a gentleman, intelligent and encouraging. Never did he begin discussing issues of finance and never did he mention fancy dreams of the future. Instead, Thomas was happy with where he was in his life, settled but with goals, and appreciative to be living his dream of photography even if considered an amateur. Thomas respected the opinions of all but made his own decisions, and his decisions were made with a responsible character. Thomas was not prone to pride or recklessness and felt no ill will toward others. He was a good man with good ethics, and yet voices in my head, like ghosts from the past, would not leave me, whispering doubt at every turn.
In the winter, nearly two years after we had met, Thomas and I were attending a community candlelit picnic by the river. An orchestra played, their images reflected in the water as blankets and fires made of kindling brought from houses about town kept the audience warm. It was then that Thomas first mentioned marriage, but I would hear of none of it and, finally, told him of George. It seemed, however, that he already knew of George from rumor about town and cared not of that part of my past.
After much indecision on my part and through much persuasion on his, we agreed to be married. We made plans to meet at the train station and travel to the capitol, planning to marry there just before the opening of a new museum to house one of his photographs of The Oak.
The day we were to meet at the station, I ordered that the front gates to the property be locked and that no one be allowed to pass; I locked the great front doors of the house; and I never left the house that day, abandoning him there, if he actually showed there as he had promised. The ghosts in my head continued, as they had for months, to tell me that if I risked my heart he would leave me someday, and I would be alone and cold like before. I never returned to the museum and I never heard from him again. I never made any attempt to contact him, not even a note to try and explain, and I’ve often wondered if he even bothered to travel to the train station that day. Most days, I suppose he did not. But, whether it is ghosts in my head continuing their rants or if it is my conscience trying to ease itself from the heartache I may have caused another, I do not know.
The bags I had packed were unpacked and the camera equipment was boxed up, a reminder I cared not to have about me. Sometimes, I wonder what happened of Thomas, but I don’t allow the thought to remain for long.
Katrina, the weather grows worse as the season progresses and I am no longer able to visit. But, as always, I will be certain to send you beautiful flowers.
Sisters forever,
Christina
This work is fictional. Any resemblance to actual situations or persons, living or dead, is coincidental and unintentional.
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