Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated December 12

December 12
Katrina,



The sun shines today upon glistening snow, twinkling as if snowflakes are smiling back to the sun. The birds that remain here have been marching through the frosty blanket of the Earth, looking back upon their steps as if to study the interesting tracks they have created. A quiet peace hovers above the land like mist above the water. God must surely be sitting atop some mountain, looking down upon the beauty and enjoying the view.



I dreamed last night of snow falling upon fields of wildflowers, of angels, and of words unconnected to each other flowing through my mind, words spoken by voices unrecognized, words spoken in peace and words spoken in anger. And, I awoke this morning wondering if, at least, the angels feel I’m worth the fight.



Though there is great beauty outside the window, inside the walls of my heart and inside the walls of this house there is a deafening silence; it is a darkening, frightening silence that I have known before, a silence filled with a desolation void of comfort, an empty and hollow abandon, a silence that seems to engulf the world about me and drown any bridges that may have been. And, as I write this, I have but to wonder who won the battle, which voices did I believe and then follow, marching, step by step, faithfully, after nothing.



But, as the future becomes the present, fading quickly into the past, the sun begins to shine upon the walls of The Oak and the walls reflect to the sun the shimmer of hope. And, as the light begins to brighten the room, I think I see the ceramic angels gently turn their loving smiles to me and begin to broaden their wings, and down the hall I hear the faint sound of laughter.



Whispers cross the corridor, Katrina, whispers that seem to grow nearer, stronger. Mother? Father? And, I could swear I feel Whiskers brush his coat against my foot, scratching his back as he settles down to nap. And, on the air now floats the scent of wildflowers. And, the laughter is now in this room.



“We love you,” whisper voices in unison, though I recognize each voice individually. “We love you,” words I’ve needed to hear for so long, but do I dare believe? “We love you,” the voices continue, repeatedly, over and over again, until, finally, I believe. Yes, I believe.



And the voices fade away with the scent of wildflowers and the feel of Whiskers sleeping by my foot is gone, yet, I believe.



Love always,
Christina




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