Letters Home; Section 1, Letter dated November 2

November 2
Katrina,



Thanksgiving is coming, and the house is now decorated with the colors of fall, the tablecloths, the curtains, and the china matched perfectly to the season of gratitude. Outside, the snow is quietly falling, trying not to wake the Earth as it sleeps, and in the distance I see the old oak tree collecting snow on its branches like unexpected treasures found in the sand.



And, thankful I am in my old age of all I have been granted in this world. We were fortunate, Sister, to be able to grow up here at The Oak, a home made with love, a house with hope as its center stone. Here, especially on Thanksgiving, we enjoyed juicy turkeys and hams, sweet potatoes and corn, biscuits and marmalades, and limitless desserts of fruits and chocolate and custard, and hope.



We were blessed with safety in our younger days, blessed with fall festivals and stories that were told to us by bear-catching men who doubled as magicians, and blessed by a childhood of laughter and picnics on sunny days down by the lake near the oak tree. Educations, we received, and importance was placed upon them. And, we were blessed with regular visits to museums and art galleries, blessed to experience the cities and the countryside, to travel, and to learn of other cultures, to know of lifestyles other than the affluent.



Even since the last time I saw you, I have been blessed in many ways though I’ve not always recognized those blessings or appreciated them. Blessed, I’ve been, at continuing to reside here at The Oak, to watch it grow and change, to be amidst memories of our childhood and to view The Oak as it prepares for its future. Blessed, I’ve been, that the business deals of Father and myself have supported The Oak, myself. Blessed, I am, that my health has continued to allow me, at times, to look across the fields of clover, towards the lake and the old oak tree.



Blessed, yes, for the visitors who have come here to The Oak, telling of their lives in ways that has taught me much about my own life. Blessed, indeed, for an opportunity to share my life, my mistakes, and to warn others of the dangers. Blessed, true, for all the people that I have met along a long journey, people of business, strangers, and people of familiarity who have helped to teach me, helped me to reach the place I am now, helped me to recognize my mistakes, helped me to heal.



And, yes, I was blessed with a childhood with the greatest sister I could ask for, a sister, a confidant, a joyful soul with a trusting smile who ran with me through fields of wildflowers.



Yet, how could it be, Katrina, that two children so similar, born of the same mother, born in the same hour, could look at the world so differently, could lead such different lives? Can one be born cursed by a predetermined future, or cursed by slates of an earlier past? Can one be born cursed by the slates of another? Sister? Is there such a thing as a demon seed, a seed within a few that writes upon the slate negativity, working as a filter so that happiness is diluted, little by little, until it seems either nonexistent or unimportant? Or, is it simply each of us, day by day, constructing our lives like a jigsaw puzzle in the process of creation?



From the very beginning, we were so different. You, Sister, were always the bright-eyed cheery child, prepared for life each morning with a trusting smile, with laughter, while I was more difficult to please, more guarded of events that occurred, more guarded of intentions and true emotions. It was I, according to our Mother’s accounts, left alone in the crib for incessant crying and who was difficult to take a bottle. The demeanor you exerted was much more pleasant, so we were told.



As we grew, our bond seemed to me unbreakable, two children dressed as one, playing, learning, growing. We shared the same crib and later the same room, we shared parents and chores and meals, yet we seemed to grow separately as well. We were two children of the same age but reared differently in the same home by the same people. Proper, we decided, when certain dreams were encouraged over others. Necessary, we said, when Mother would remain leaned, smiling over a certain shoulder during studies. Habits, we called it, of who received the first hug or greeting upon entering a room. Early, I noticed, that punishments always fit the crimes but that punishments were different for each child, punishments for one involving long periods of being alone. Sometimes, Sister, I wondered if they were truly removing from me not the freedom to roam but the one thing that meant the most to me, my time with you. Perhaps, I was simply jealous, Sister, of the sister I wanted to be.



You, Sister, were my only friend, my best friend. How could I have expected that you would not grow older, wiser, and leave me for a new life, leave me to follow your dreams, your heart? I should have known better. I should have wished for you better. I should have made it easier for you.



And, on this Thanksgiving, I am truly thankful that, despite the grief I caused, your dreams of happiness, of love and family, became your life.



Sisters,
Christina




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