Letters Home, Section 2, December 31, 1999

December 31, 1999

Lisa stood at the kitchen sink, washing her hands when Monica came in. “How is she,” Lisa asked, her face showing the fatigue from a day of cleaning, of preparing for the inevitable.

Monica inhaled deeply, having had enough experience in caring for the elderly to know that the end was near. “She’s asleep, finally. She’s been restless and mumbling, but I can’t understand most of it. She’s a determined lady, but I don’t think she’ll be here much longer.” Monica’s words were gentle, her eyes reddened, tired from sitting with Christina in a dimly lit room so that the light would not disturb Christina’s sleep.

Lisa quietly looked out the window, staring into the dark winter night and supporting the weight of her body on the edge of the sink. “Tomorrow is her birthday. Can you imagine being a hundred years old, living for that long?”

“No,” Monica replied as she leaned against the counter and ran a hand through her hair. “She was very weak this morning, but she insisted on sitting up at the desk and writing. And, when she had finished writing, she let me put her to bed. She just laid there for a while, quietly, like she was thinking. But, when she finally began to drift off into sleep, she seemed aggravated. I gave her the pain medication the doctor prescribed and that seemed to help a bit, but she’s still mumbling as if she’s talking to someone.”

“I visited with her a few times this afternoon and, each time,” Lisa said, continuing to stare out the window as if reflecting, “she wanted the bedroom window open.”

“Hum, that was one of the words I was able to understand when she was mumbling, window.” Monica took a cookie from the platter beneath the glass globe sitting upon the prep table. “I’ll be checking on her periodically throughout the night. I’ll let you know if anything happens.”

“Won’t have to worry about the window anyway,” Lisa muttered. “Remember,” she motioned to Monica, turning partly towards her, “Christina kept opening the window in the autumn and early winter, so we had it nailed shut. It would take one of the field hands hours to get those windows open.”

“Oh, and it was such a shame,” Monica mentioned as she took a bite of her cookie. “When I would sit with her by an open window, Christina would speak about the Oak and its history, about the Earth. She loves it so. She was an environmentalist before there was such a thing.”

Lisa shook her head, turning to face Monica. “Christina Allgood had a wealth of knowledge to share and an army of demons to fight. And, in the last few years, I think she was actually beginning to win the war. It’s too bad it took her so long.”


Christina’s body lay there in bed, her eyes shut but her ears hearing the wind knocking at the window like a visitor wanting inside.

“Do you hear me, Christina,” a silent voice asked through the window. “Open the window and come with me.”


A light flashed and Christina awoke. “I don’t even know how I got here,” Christina said, her voice echoing in the stillness of the air. Christina’s eyes roamed the landscape. No signs of life existed here, the wind silent of birds and the land free of animals. As she slowly turned to survey the area, the sound of her feet dragging against the pavement seemed to echo the silence. The world seemed to have deserted this place, taking with it all signs of direction when it left. Christina just stood there in the middle of the road and studied the area in the setting sun. The cold stones covering the earth seemed to her harsh but lifeless, separated only by sand and dry soil that had cracked from the sun, and the old road, which seemed to reach out into an eternity of emptiness, was dotted with small pebbles that had worked loose from the many potholes. The only structure was a stone mound that sat near the road as if ruling the landscape, a mound small enough that Christina could see barren land on either side but tall enough that it seemed to lurk over her like a nightmare.

Christina walked, each breath and each footstep echoing, studying the sky with no ceiling, the road with no end, listening to the unmistakable silence. She said not a word as she walked, slowly taking each step as she studied the sand, the pebbles along the road, and the stone mound that seemed to follow her with invisible eyes. Yet, the further she walked, she discovered that she remained in the same place, there in the nothingness, there by the stone mound, as if the road were some sort of treadmill that kept her walking but took her nowhere.

“Hello,” Christina whispered, wondering if anyone would respond. “Hello,” she swallowed hard as she said the word a bit louder, her voice still quiet yet echoing as if she were speaking into an empty well. Christina inhaled deeply, trying to gather her strength, and then exhaled slowly, a sound that bounced between the stone mound and the ground as if they were mimicking her. “Is anyone there,” she cried out.

A blood-curdling scream rang into Christina’s ears, her own voice it was and yet she was making not a sound. Christina bent over in shock and feeling pain within her soul, uselessly covering her ears with her hands. And, the scream continued on as if it would not end, blending with a roaring, increasing in volume, like a tape rewinding at top speed, then beginning to play too quickly, distorting words, until slowing down so that the words could be understood. And, as the scream silenced, a moment followed of voices not her own, critical voices overlapping each other, talking quickly, squeezing her heart with fierce claws of cruelty. And, then it was over, and, once again, there was silence all about.

Overwhelmed, she sat in the middle of the road, in the darkening silence, wondering, overwhelmed, disheartened. Christina, unable to forget the scream, the voices, began to remember.

And, Christina remembered… A young Katrina, holding the locked box, knelt by Christina as Christina began to dig with a small spade. “A time capsule. Just like we learned in our lessons,” Katrina explained to Whiskers, her voice muffled a bit.

“And on the eastern side of the house so that the sun will always rise on our capsule,” Christina added, getting dirt on her dress as she dug.

Katrina placed the box in the ground, Whiskers sniffing about it, and Christina began to cover the box with the loose soil. “This way,” Katrina said as she helped to move dirt over the box with her hands, “we’ll always be together, sisters, forever.” Katrina turned to Whiskers, “Nothing will ever break us apart. That’s why we put our picture in there, Whiskers.”

And, when the box was completely covered, the sisters stood, and Katrina leaned her head on Christina’s shoulder. “You’re my best friend. I don’t know what I’d do without my sister.” And, the two girls set out to walk through the fields of wildflowers.

And, Christina remembered… “Oh, Christina, wasn’t it a beautiful ceremony,” Katrina, still in her gown of white, said as she spoke with Christina in the kitchen.
“You were certainly the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen,” Christina assured her.
Katrina’s expression grew more serious. “Robert and I will be leaving for the coast immediately.” Her eyes began to tear. “It will seem so strange not having my sister with me always.”

Christina tried to hide her watering eyes. “You’ll make a good wife. And, we’ll write and visit and there will be holidays and special occasions and we’ll still be sisters.”

“Like the time capsule,” Katrina reminded Christina, “we’ll always be together, if only in spirit. We’ll always be together, we’ll always be together…” The words rang through Christina’s mind, a broken recording of days gone by.

And, Christina remembered… “I’ve heard from family members who work for her that she’s very ill, Christina,” Lisa said, pouring Christina’s coffee into a porcelain cup as she ate breakfast in the dining room, sitting in the chair so that she could see the window and the china cabinet, hoping for a glimpse of the past.

“Who?”

“Katrina,” Lisa said, astonished at the question. “I’ve been telling you for days now that I’ve been hearing that Katrina is ill.”

Christina did feel within her heart an uncommon twinge, an emotional concern for her sister. “What’s wrong with her, do they say?”

“They think her heart is failing. They say it’s serious, Christina, very serious.”

Christina swallowed hard, looking out the window into the sunshine as Lisa grunted and returned to the kitchen.

As days passed, Christina became more agitated, the pain in her heart growing. With tears in her eyes, she made her way to the phone, dialing the number but then hanging up before a ring could be heard, frightened that her sister would not wish to speak to her after all these years. Again, she tried, but the strength would not come until finally, on the third dialing, she was able to summon the courage. “I’d like to speak with Katrina, please.”

An anonymous, mechanical voice responded, “I’m sorry, ma’am. Katrina is deceased.” The voice noticed the pause. “Ma’am, are you still there? Hello, can I help you.”

And, Christina hung up the phone, her prideful tears flooding her face. After making her way upstairs to the old oak desk in her father’s office, Christina took out paper and pen, staining the letter with tears. “Dearest Katrina, my Sister, I’ve been such a complete and utter fool. I let my anger keep us apart for most of our lives, and now I’ve waited too long to try to make amends. Katrina, can your spirit hear me, my Sister….” And, when the letter was completed, Christina put it in an envelope and placed it on the corner of the desk in the light of the sun.

Christina sat during the graveside service, looking into the closed casket of a sister she had not seen in decades as the preacher spoke of the kind and generous spirit that the world had lost. Many attended the service, all seeming to know Katrina and speaking only well of her. Yet, Christina spoke to no one, her shame too great, and no one spoke to Christina though she heard several whisper about the irony of the family resemblance hidden behind a black veil since Katrina had had no sister.

Christina continued to sit in the middle of the road, the pavement beneath her beginning to cool. She watched the sun set without the splendor of color, a blazing ball of fire simply fading to black. Hot tears slowly ran down her face as her head, feeling heavy and unanimated, lowered to stare at the pavement, noticing the disruptions in the evenness, the specks of dust that had landed carelessly here and there.

And, Christina remembered… “Father, Father,” Katrina hollered as she ran into his office. “Look at what I did,” showing a finger-painted version of the Oak.

“Well, it’s beautiful,” Father exclaimed, his arms enfolding the little girl as she climbed into his lap.

“Look at mine,” Christina asked as she watched the scene from nearby.

“Why it, too, is lovely,” Father exclaimed as he put his arm around Christina’s shoulder.

And, Christina remembered… “Where did you get that dirt on your dress,” Mother asked.
“We were digging a hole for a time capsule, Mother, like in our lessons,” Christina responded.

“You’re a mess,” Mother said as she turned Christina around and sent her upstairs with instructions to clean up. “I do declare, why can’t you be more like your sister?”

And, Christina remembered… Mother and Betsy sat on the porch in the setting summer sun, the rocking chairs creaking as they rocked. “Kids can be a handful,” Betsy laughed, as she took another drink of her lemonade. “Christina will grow out of it.”
Christina watched, unobserved, from inside the kitchen.

“Sometimes,” Mother said, “I wish there was only one of them. Life would be so much easier.”

There in the middle of the road, Christina rocked back and forth on the pavement listening to the silence of the darkness, her head throbbing and her body beginning to chill. Earlier, hot tears had felt as though they had melted through her skin but now she felt that there was not even a tear left inside of her, empty. Christina leaned to her left until, without intention, she was laying on her side, her arms haphazardly placed in front of her and her head leaning downward into part of a pothole, seemingly unaware that a stone was piercing her side. And, the memories continued, yet unseen frames connected to her life being shown to Christina.

And Christina remembered… He had had business dealings with Father, and now he dealt with Christina, the light of her heart dimmed by Betsy’s recent death. And, now, the businessman wanted to speak to Christina in his office.

“I should be used to this by now,” Christina thought as she prepared for what usually followed, the calm she always promised herself to feel gone as quickly as a drop of rain over the Atlantic blends into the ocean. Sitting down across the table, Christina felt her body begin to shake, her chest begin to hurt, and sensed the tears beginning to rise from somewhere in her stomach. She swallowed hard and, having been through this so many times before, began to shut down so as to drown part of the terror to follow.

And the man exhaled loudly. “What…,” his voice began to rise to a fever pitch until he was standing and banging his fist on the table. “I don’t….,” he continued, though Christina’s mind tried to block the words.

Christina’s tears began to flow as she sat by the table, unstoppable like a flood that had busted a dam, and her chest was heaving as she tried to choke down the fear. Staring at her knees to prevent angering the man further, knowing what angry men could do, and trying to focus to keep from shaking, Christina felt sick to her stomach as usual. It was always behind closed doors, and Christina knew no one would ever believe her if she tried to explain what happened in that office. Christina thought about how close she was to the door yet how far away.

“You’re the problem…,” he continued to yell, “….do you understand…” Finally, the words that always ended were said, “Now, I’ve said all I want to say. You can go.”

And, Christina remembered… There, in the banker’s office, Christina made no time for idle chatter, simply beginning with the reason for her visit.

“You’ve made a mistake with my account,” Christina stated, her teeth clinched, her voice stern, her eyes focused on the banker’s nameplate, trying to not tear at his first name being Thomas.

“Well, we’ll certainly be glad to review it and correct any error, Ms. Allgood.” The banker, a youthful man with bright eyes, smiled sincerely as he began to open the books. “Where is it that we’ve erred?”

Christina pointed out the incorrect arithmetic in the credit column, and the banker made the correction immediately. “That should do it. We do apologize for the error, but mistakes do happen. I’m glad you caught it and brought it to our attention. Mistakes are more easily corrected when they’re caught quickly.”

“There is no room for error, Sir,” Christina angrily stated, staring at the man coldly as she stood and left the room. “See that it doesn’t happen again.”

And, the man’s eyes began to dim.

“Ben,” Thomas said after Christina had left, “get in here.” Thomas’ voice became angry, slamming the door after Ben, a young clerk, entered. “A mistake was made on the Allgood account. I want you go over every detail with a fine tooth comb and make certain there are no more errors.”

And, Ben left Thomas’ office with shaky knees, wondering what he had done wrong, doubting his ability, doubting himself, and thinking of how to prevent Thomas from being angered again.

And, Christina remembered… Katrina lay in a hospital bed, get well cards adorning the walls and balloons hanging in the corner of the room. Surrounded by family, with friends waiting outside, Katrina suffered through periods of restlessness and mumbling between periods of restful sleep and peacefulness. In her waking moments, she would speak of someone known only to her memory, forgotten to the rest of the family.

“Christina,” Katrina would mumble, her aged voice soft and trembling, a tearful cry to the name heard mentioned between beeps of the mechanical equipment attached to the heart. “Is she here?”

Katrina’s heart was causing her great pain, often medicated by the hospital in hopes of relieving her distress, but they could not heal the true pain. “Christina,” Katrina would call out. “Has anyone heard from her? Is she okay? Where is she? Where is my sister?” And, again, at the urging of the family, the hospital would increase or decease medication to prevent Katrina from having such illusions since they knew of no sister.

“I didn’t mean to hurt her so,” Katrina would say now and again, tears streaming down her face as she would say the words. “She’s my sister. We were supposed to be together forever, but I wasn’t a very good sister. Find my sister, for me?” Several times, the hospital tied down Katrina to prevent her from trying to get out of bed, from trying to find Christina.

“Has Christina called,” Katrina would ask upon waking.

“Is Christina here yet,” Katrina would ask at other times.

“It’s probably the medication effecting her brain,” the doctor told the family. “Perhaps she once had a friend or someone named Christina, someone that may be she thought of as a sister?”

Little Robert, now an elderly man, spoke up, the only one yet able to recall a memory of the name. “There once was someone with that name, but I cannot recall the relation and they have been long since been dead.”

“It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t your fault,” Christina repeatedly said within her mind.

Enveloped in darkness as she lay on the pavement, Christina closed her vacant eyes and carelessly drifted into sleep, memories returning as dreams haunted her mind.

Christina awoke with the taste of sand in her mouth and the burning heat of the sun on her face. Unlike the glorious sunshine she was used to, the sun in this desolated place seemed angry, hostile, unforgiving. Slowly, she lifted her body into a sitting position and her eyes, still feeling swollen from the tears, looked down the endless road. But, although the silence was still about and the stone mound still hovering over her, the road was now different, a fork having presented two paths from which to choose, but both roads seemed to stretch out into eternity, reaching out forever.


“Christina,” Monica gently said as she placed a cool compress upon Christina’s forehead to soothe a fever. “Can you hear me?” Monica looked at the clock upon the mantle, the time being nearly nine-thirty on the last night of the year.


Christina had grown silent, her mumbling ending when the fever began. The room was quiet, the clock heard ticking and the snow heard falling outside the window. Monica looked through the window into the night, and then her glance was drawn down to the pile of letters sitting upon the desk.
Monica gave Christina the required injection of medication and placed Christina’s arms under the covers to make certain she remained warm. “Would you like me to read to you, Christina? May be it will help you rest.” And, Monica took the letters from the desk and began to read aloud to Christina. But, shortly, the mumbling began again.


Somehow, Christina found the strength to stand, slowly walking to where the roads meet. Looking down the stretch of both roads, she could see no difference between the two. “How do I choose,” she asked only in her mind.

“It’s a question of hope,” a kind and gentle female voice said on the wind, though no body was around.

“Hello,” Christina asked. “Is someone there?” Christina looked about, listening, but the voice did not come from any direction, seeming, instead, to be all about her.

“Someone is always here, Christina,” the voice answered, but still no body was seen.
“Where are you?”

“I am everywhere. I am all around you.”

“But, where are you? I don’t see you.”

“You won’t see me. I have no human form.”

“What’s your name?”

“I have no name. I am simply a presence, a voice in the darkness.”

Christina looked around the landscape, confused. “Are you real or am I hearing things?”

“I am real, as real as you want me to be.”

“Where am I?”

“This is the Valley of Death.”

“Why isn’t there anyone here with me.”

“There are many souls here, Christina. But, like you, they see no one else about them.”

“You know my name?”

“I know everything about you,” the female voice said, “up until this very moment.”

“Since it was nighttime, am I still alive, did I survive the night, did I turn a century old?”

“Your body is still alive in the world you have known, though night there has not yet passed.”

“But, I saw the sun go down here,” Christina questioned, looking about the area, continuing to think that a form of some type would appear.

“There is no time here, no yesterdays or tomorrows, no night or day. There is no age here, as you know it, no health or sickness. Everyone here is equal. Light or darkness is determined by what’s in your heart, your soul.”

“So, everyone must pass through here?”

“Yes, everyone.”

“Why can’t I see the other people? Why can’t they see me?”

“Because souls influence one another and there is a question that you and you alone must answer. It is a question that you must answer for yourself, a question that no one can answer for you. And, it is a question that you must answer, indecision is not an answer.”

“What’s the decision,” Christina grew nervous.

The voice remained calm. “Whether you will choose the road of hope or the road of despair. Yet, your time is limited, Christina, and God will determine indecision as a choice to follow the path of despair, of darkness.”

“How do I know which road is which,” Christina asked as a cloud of dust began to stir, filling her eyes with sand as she raised her arms to protect her face. And, when the dust settled, Christina sat there, where the roads meet, wanting to go home.


“Christina,” Monica said as she quietly read aloud the letters Christina had written to Katrina, “you must have written nearly every day, or at least once a week, for years. Why didn’t you ever mail them,” Monica asked, knowing there would be no response since, again, Christina’s mumbling had ceased, leaving her able to rest more comfortably. “You had so much to share, Christina, so much you had experienced, so much you had learned. In just the little bit I’ve read, you’ve inspired me. I think I’ll write to my own sister tomorrow. It’s been a while since I’ve talked to her. And, as long as there is still time, there is opportunity for change, hope, right?”

And, Christina rested, lying there in her bed, until the mumbling began again.


Christina sat where the two paths meet, looking upward to the burning sun and looking over at the stone mound that still seemed to be watching her every move. The silence was deafening again, no voices about, and the sound of her own breathing sometimes seemed louder than a train, an undeniable volume that seemed to be like a clock, counting down to the end time. In front of her, in the sand between the two paths, Christina drew a smiling face, a finger drawing as a child might do, with jagged lines but good intentions.

And, Christina remembered… “Christina, look,” a young Katrina exclaimed as her fingers parted the grass. The day was sunny and bright, but a spring breeze blew through the fields. “A four-leaf clover! I found a four-leaf clover.”

Christina went to Katrina to study the plant, counting the leaves to be certain it was a lucky clover. “You really did. I thought Mother and Father were only making up such stories.”

“What do we do with it?”

“We have to leave it there, Katrina,” Christina replied. “Surely, pulling it up like a weed would be bad luck. May be if we leave it there, it will bring good luck to the Oak, to all of us.”

“You’re probably right.”

“But, we need to mark it somehow so that we know where it is and can find it again.” Christina picked up Whiskers who was trying to paw at the clover. “I know. We can put a stick in the ground nearby so we’ll know.” And, with that thought, Christina found a short stick that had fallen from a nearby oak tree and, with some effort, planted the stick vertically near the lucky leaf.

For the rest of the season, the young girls would go to the location of the stick almost daily and find the four-leaf clover, studying it and discussing it’s good fortune, but never removing it from the Earth.

And, Christina remembered… Flashes of Mother’s face and Father’s laughter and Katrina’s eyes ran through Christina’s mind, sweet memories of olden times recollected as if they occurred just yesterday.

And, Christina remembered… “You’re doing fine,” a teenage Christina hollered from the side of the creek as Katrina delicately balanced on a tree that was crossing over the water, trying to make her way to Christina. “Stay focused on the side of the creek. Don’t look down. If you look at the log, then stay focused on the log. You can do this, Katrina, you can,” Christina encouraged.

“Uh, I don’t know,” Katrina hesitated on the middle of the log, swinging her arms outward to try to balance herself.

“Remember, Kat,” Christina spoke calmly, trying to reassure Katrina, “it’s just a creek. If you fall in, you’ll get a little wet, but you’ll only be in a few inches of water and the log is only a few feet above the water. If I got across, you can too. It just takes some practice and a little bit of courage. That’s all. I know you can do this, Kat. Just take one step at a time. They can be little steps, but just take some steps.”

With shaky knees, Katrina took a step, followed by another, leaning heavily from one side to another at times in an attempt to balance, making her way to the side of the creek where Christina awaited her.

“You did it.”

“I did it,” Katrina exhaled. And the two girls rejoiced.

A smile came across Christina’s face as she sat where the two roads meet, continuing to retrace the circle with her finger around the smiling face. And, the anger of the sun eased and the beams of light became less harsh, and the rays of the sun began to gently twinkle in a familiar way.

And, Christina closed her eyes and remembered moments of joy, reflections of the past that filled her heart with the tenderness of happy memories as images returned to her. In her mind, Christina saw two children, running through fields of wildflowers on a bright summer day, the light shining through the windows as Katrina walked toward her husband-to-be, the gentle smile upon her mother’s face. In her mind, Christina heard the laughter of her father and of Thomas, the gentle sound of an autumn rain falling upon the Earth, and the sounds of rocking chairs rocking on the front porch of the Oak. In her mind, she smelled the aromas floating out from Betsy’s kitchen and the scent of lilies on a spring breeze. And, in her mind, she remembered the softness of Whisker’s fur, the intense gaze from the horse’s eye, and the tall strength of the oak tree down by the water.

When Christina opened her eyes, sitting there in the still silence of the valley, she looked out at the choices before her. And, along one path, she saw a single rose beginning to grow.

And, a loud cry wailed in Christina’s ears, a cry coming from within though she made not a sound. Again, Christina covered her ears, to no avail, the sound lingering, breathtaking in volume. Christina began to cry, and the rose began to wither.

And, Christina remembered… Christina sorted through the mail as she walked through the door, deciding which post to read first. A letter from Katrina was found at the bottom of the pile, and Christina opened it quickly, mentioning to Betsy that Katrina had written as she did so.

“Well,” Betsy asked, “what does it say?”

Christina smiled as she began, “It looks like everyone is doing fine. Robert is considering opening another bank in a nearby town on the coast. Little Robert is doing well, but Katrina says that he has the same fondness for getting chocolate all over himself as she and I did.” Betsy chuckled as Christina held her finger on the paper to mark her spot. “I’m glad she’s happy, but I do miss her.”

“We all do. Well, read on,” Betsy encouraged, leaning somewhat on her broom as she listened.

“The weather is still warm down there,” and Christina’s smile faded. “Oh, she won’t be able to visit because she is with child again.”

“She delivered Little Robert with no problem, so there’s no reason for concern, Christina,” Betsy assured.

“I,” Christina stuttered, “was hoping to see her. And, I was hoping that she could see Mother. She hasn’t been feeling well, you know.”

Betsy’s expression grew more serious as she looked up the grand staircase toward the second floor. Swallowing hard, Betsy’s continued, “Well, the coast is a long ways away and, well, sometimes that’s just the way life is.” Betsy paused, noticing a suddenly sorrowful Christina. “Now, you be sure to take that letter up to your mother and read it to her, okay?”

And, Christina remembered… Christina came through the front door shaking off the rain from the umbrella, placing it beside the step as Betsy had always taught her to do. Looking about the room, Christina sensed that the Oak was missing Betsy on the rainy, autumn afternoon. Sorting through the mail, she noticed a letter from Katrina, tossing it aside as she walked, the letter landing upon the floor.

Betsy’s daughter, who had cared for the Oak since Betsy’s death, picked up the discarded message, putting it in her apron pocket as she had all the others, later placing it in a box in the kitchen in case Christina ever wished to read them.

And, Christina remembered… Christina awoke, tearful and doubtful of what to do, her stomach churning, her heart in pain. She dressed and ate and prepared for travel, asking that her trunks be taken downstairs. Standing at the top of the grand staircase, looking down upon the entrance of the Oak, she remembered the guests at her wedding, George leaving, and herself sitting at the bottom of the staircase in her gown of white. As she looked at the front doors, Christina began to feel ill as she remembered Steven.

“Shall I load the car,” a field worker said, having just walked in to perform the task and noticing Christina’s blank, watery stare.

Christina swallowed hard, anger rising to replace the tears. Lifting her head so that it sat sternly on her shoulders, she walked down the steps. “No,” she ordered. “Take the trunks back upstairs. And, then see to it immediately that the front gates are locked. No one enters the Oak without my prior approval.”

“Ms. Christina,” the worker said, confused by the change in plans.

“I will lock up the house. No one but those who work here shall enter. Understood,” she said coldly as she passed by the worker without meeting his eyes, walking to the door and bolting it shut before heading to the kitchen to do the same, taking off her traveling hat and coat, throwing them over a chair on the way.

And, Christina remembered… Thomas stood there, his overcoat in hand since the sun had come out and warmed the day, graciously tipping his hat and saying, “Good Day,” to passers by as he anxiously waited at the station. Standing by his traveling cases, he inhaled deeply and checked his watch. The train would be leaving soon, but Christina had not yet arrived.

“Where you headed,” the elderly ticket-taker asked Thomas when the other passengers had been boarded.

“The capitol. I’m waiting for my bride-to-be.” Thomas looked down the road from which Christina would come. “She hasn’t arrived yet.”

“Well, sometimes the ladies get cold feet,” he said as he patted Thomas on the arm and returned to his counter.

Thomas waited, indecisive of how to proceed when the last call to board was hollered from the platform. Making his way to the ticket booth, Thomas asked, “Is there another train leaving for the capitol soon?”

“Tomorrow morning will be the next one out.”

“Oh,” Thomas muttered as he walked off, looking down the road again but still with no sign of Christina. Soon, the attendant mentioned that if Thomas was going to be on this train he needed to board immediately. But, with dimmed eyes, Thomas waved off the attendant, mentioning that he would catch the next train.

For hours, Thomas waited, wondering if Christina had misunderstood the time, wondering if Christina cared for him as much as he cared for her, his heart beginning to fracture with each chime of the station clock.

Later that day, standing at the gate of the Oak, requesting entry, Thomas was told by the gatekeeper that Christina had ordered the gates locked and that no one was allowed entry. And, his heart broke as he returned to his car, tears streaming down his face.

And, Christina remembered… The sound of a gunshot blasted inside Christina’s head as she rocked back and forth on the ground where the roads meet, remembering looking down upon Steven, lying dead amongst the trees, covered in blood. And, the smell of alcohol consumed her as she viewed images in her mind of Joe’s Tavern.

And, Christina remembered… “How many times have we been over this,” Christina ranted at the young housekeeper, pointing out a smudge on the glass. “The windows must be kept clean so that the sun can come in.” Christina continued to yell, though, even if her own mind, she wondered why this was bothering her so deeply.

“I’m sorry. I’ll get it right next time,” the housekeeper said, lowering her head to try to hide the tears, her knees shaking, her hope being stolen by anger and her faith being shattered with verbal stones. This wasn’t the first time, and the housekeeper knew it would not be the last.

“Clean this up now,” Christina exhaled. “One more chance,” she ranted. “Just one more chance. There is no room for mistakes here. None.”

Christina walked from the room, her feet pounding the floor with each step. And, the further away Christina walked, the more tears that fell from the housekeeper’s eyes, her esteem crumbling, her courage gone, her pride in invisible pieces on the floor. For a while, the housekeeper simply stood there, no energy within her body to move, frightened to err again.

Christina laid down in the shadow of the stone mound where the two roads meet, beginning to cry harsh tears that burned the skin. The wailing that seemed to last for an eternity subsided, and the sun faded into blackness without the beauty of sunset.


“What do you think I should say, Christina,” Monica asked, expecting no answer as she felt Christina’s forehead, “in my letter to my sister? Your temperature seems to be rising again. We’ll keep an eye on that, okay. You just rest.” Monica readjusted the blankets on the bed and continued reading the letters written to Katrina.
Christina’s restlessness and mumbling was settling, but, after a brief period of rest, it would soon begin again.


She could feel sand in her hair and in her eyes as she awakened, the night having turned again into a harsh day, the sun beating down on Christina with yellow fists of rage. Looking down the path where she had previously seen the growing flower, she saw only the remains of a dead plant. Christina crawled on the sand between the two paths, her body aching as she slowly reached the flower. Brushing away the sand from its stem and trying to shade it from the sun, Christina tried to find the faith to wish it good morning, to wish it well again.

“Where is the voice from yesterday,” Christina thought as she tried to help the plant.

“I am here, Christina. I am always here though you may not always hear me. To hear me, you must first desire to hear of me,” the female voice said with a tone that reminded Christina of a loving Mother, gentle and nurturing, nourishing life. Still, the voice seemed to have no direction, completely surrounding and comforting Christina.

“You said that I must choose between the path of hope and the path of despair.” Christina said as she sat by the flower, providing it shade, love, yet looking about hoping to see a form. “So, one of these roads is hope and one is despair?”

“Yes.”

“So, how do I know which is which?”

“Do not concern yourself with the solid path beneath your feet. Choose in your heart which path to follow and I will see that you walk along the path of your choice.”

“What happens if I just walk down one of the roads I see?”

“They are just images, Christina, illusions to help you understand that there are only two options from which to choose. You may step upon one or you may step upon the other, but neither physical road will remove you from the valley or from the decision you must make in your heart, the decision to follow the road of hope or the road of despair.”

“Why would anyone choose the road of despair?”

“Souls sometimes do, Christina. Souls sometimes do.” The voice paused, but continued. “Time is running short, Christina, your death in the world that you know will be arriving soon, and you must make your decision before then.” A cloud of dust stirred, and Christina was again alone, shadowing the flower and trying to return it to life.

A voice exhaled, a male voice coming from nowhere yet coming from everywhere.
“Christina, Christina, Christina,” the male voice said, much more animated than the female voice but with a sense of displeasure in his voice. “When will you learn,” he said.

Christina looked about, yet there was no body in the area. “Hello,” she said, her eyes roving the dry and lifeless landscape for some sort of form.

“You’ll never bring that thing back to life.”

Christina looked to the flower, still withered but with more color to its form than it had had as the night fell. “Do you have a name?”

“Well, I have many names, but we don’t really need to concern ourselves with that. What’s in a name anyway. Look at you. Your parents could have given you any name, but you’d still be who you are, wouldn’t you?” The male voice chuckled, seeming more alive, more human than the female voice with no name.

“Well, what do I call you?”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ll know who you’re talking to.” A deep inhale was heard from the voice. “So, Christina, what brings you hear,” he chuckled. “Just a little joke. Sorry.”

“Who is this voice,” Christina thought to herself as she looked about the area, confused, looking for answers.

“I am the voice of truth,” he said.

“Truth,” Christina questioned in her mind, sitting by the flower and noticing it unchanged.

“Yep, truth. I’ll tell you things that your little friend from earlier won’t bother to tell you,” the voice said sarcastically. “I’ll tell you things you know are true, ask the questions you really want answers to. Unlike your so-called friend from earlier, I’ll tell you what you really want to hear.”

“Did she lie to me?”

“Well, lie is such an ugly word,” he said. “Let’s just say she didn’t cover all the details.”

“What about the two choices, the road of hope or the road of despair?”

The male voice made a sound as if clearing the throat. “Well, you do have two choices, although I’d hardly call my road the road of despair. As governor of this little road, I like to think of it as the road of opportunity.”

“Opportunity for what?”

“Well, Christina, it kind of goes back to that truth issue I mentioned earlier. See, you go with her and you must bow to all sorts of regulations, no questions, no arguments. Any dissatisfaction will get you kicked out faster than a drunk in a saloon that hasn’t paid his tab in a few weeks.”

“And, with you?”

“You follow my road, you can experience all sorts of things, feel real emotion, feel the result of true freedom.”

“And, you are known to all of the other souls that come here? The souls that are here, but I can’t see?”

“Yep, everybody. I am a man of the people, a leader of those who want to have a voice that can cry out into eternity, ‘freedom.’”

“And, you know all about my life?”

“Christina, Christina,” the male voice taunted. “I know everything about you. We’ve met before. You just didn’t know it. Why, we’re old pals, you and me. I’ve had a grand time with you. We go back ages.”

“Who are you?”

“You keep asking that question,” the voice said, a bit more angry than before. “I told you, it doesn’t matter.” The voice continued, returning to the animated voice of earlier. “Now, you have a choice to make and time is running out. I’d love to have you on my side. All that energy, all that spunk of your youth.”

“But,” and before the word was uttered, a cloud of sand clouded her eyes and the voice went away. When Christina returned her attention to the flower, she saw that it had died, burying itself in what was like a hot tomb of sandy ash.


“Is her temperature down any,” Lisa asked as she looked over Christina’s body, lying there in the blankets in the dimly lit room.

“Some,” Monica responded. “It is lowering now that the mumbling has stopped and she’s resting again.” Monica exhaled as the clock chimed eleven. “One more hour and she’ll be a hundred years old.”

“Come on, Christina,” Lisa said as she sat on the bed and held on to Christina’s hand. “You can hold on for that long.”

“I’ve been reading the letters to her. Would you like to hear some, Lisa? She’s been writing about forgiveness and hope.”

“Please. I could use a little hope right now.”


Christina sat in the sand between the fork in the road, uncovering the flower from the sand, praying for its recovery, trying to send it happy thoughts of hope and of faith. Hours seemed to pass, the harsh sun becoming more joyful than angry, the sand less blistering as Christina recalled the past.

And, Christina remembered… Katrina, her husband, and Little Robert were visiting the Oak shortly after the baby had been born. “Here, Christina,” Katrina said, a big smile upon her face as she placed her young son in the arms of Christina. “Isn’t he perfect? So tiny and innocent, so dependent upon me. Sometimes, I wonder if I know enough to be a mother.”

Christina held the tiny infant in her arms, cradling it and gently laughing at his little fingers and little toes. “He is perfect. I have no concerns about you being a mother and you shouldn’t either. You were always the more nurturing of the two of us. And, it looks like, so far, you’ve done well. He’s clean, he’s healthy, he’s happy. That’s all you can ask for. I have faith in you, Katrina. You’ll do well by this little boy.”

“I still miss my sister. I wish you were with me to watch him grow.”

“I am always with you, Kat, always.”

And, Christina remembered… “This is for you,” Thomas said, smiling as he presented Christina with a single bright red rose.

Christina removed her view from the camera that had been set up in the field as she prepared to take a picture of the lake and saw the rose, gently taking it from him and holding it between her fingers.

“Thank you,” she smiled back, enjoying the light in his eyes and the breeze dancing with the hair outside of her hat.

And, Christina remembered… the angel sitting in the bedroom window, acting as a prism of the sunrays, directing colorful beams of light about the room, the feel of the brush running through her hair, the aroma of vanilla in the air, and the sound of Mother leaning over the bed saying morning prayers.

And, gardens of flowers seem to grow in the sand along the path where Christina sat, the sun sparkling above like a friend, full of hopeful rays of tomorrow.


“She’s resting well now,” Lisa said.

“Yes,” Monica replied. “What do you say we go to the kitchen for some coffee and cookies. I could use a break now that she’s sleeping more soundly and isn’t mumbling. It worries me when she mumbles, when I can’t understand what it is she needs.”

The two ladies made their way to the kitchen, turning on the light that seemed to burn their eyes after sitting in Christina’s dim room. After reaching for cookies off the prep table, Lisa stood by the sink as she always did and Monica leaned against the stove while pouring two cups of coffee.

“This property is so beautiful. Has it really been promised to the State?”

Lisa finished a bite of cookie before responding. “It has, but it will be interesting to see what becomes of this place when Christina is gone, the last remaining Allgood descendant. I wonder if the State will cherish the Oak as much as Christina does?”
“In the letters, Christina goes on and on about the Oak, about how much she loves it. She speaks of it as though it’s alive.”

“It’s the only home she’s ever known. She’s never lived elsewhere and she’s never been away from the Oak for very long at a time. It’s the closest thing she has to family.”

“What about all of you that work here? Aren’t you family, too?”

“Christina always made certain to take care of the staff, but she never really learned how to get to know people, how to get close to people, how to let people get to know her. The staff love it here, but it’s more because of each other than Christina. Most people see her as cold and distant. Only a few people even realize how much she cares for this house.”

“What a shame,” Monica commented, “from a soul with so much to share.”


“Christina,” the female voice returned. “Time is nearing.”

“There was a man who spoke to me,” Christina began.

“I know of him,” the voice interrupted. “He will lead you down the path of despair if you so choose.”

“I really don’t like that word,” the male voice returned, commenting arrogantly. “You do this on purpose, just to confuse people. Don’t listen to her, Christina.”

Still, no bodies appeared in the valley.

“Christina,” the female voice spoke calmly, soothingly. “You must make a decision.”

“Where is my sister? Where is Katrina? Which path did she choose?”

“That,” the female voice said, “I cannot tell you. This is a decision you must make based on your own heart, not the heart of your Sister.”

“What about you,” Christina said to the male voice. “Can you tell me.”

“Uh, well, I could, but she’s right. You really don’t, shouldn’t, consider Katrina in these negotiations. This is your decision.”

“God can grant you peace, Christina,” the female voice said.

“Please,” the male responded. “Christina, they don’t even care enough about you to send the Big Guy to talk to you. Now, I’m here for you. I made the trip, put forth the effort. They just sent a representative.”

The flowers about her began to change, some fading until invisible, some dying on the vine, and others retaining their beauty. Christina looked toward the stone mound, still hovering over her, seemingly watching her, she felt the stillness of the air as it echoed her own voice and the burning sand beneath her, and she heard the silence of the lifeless valley surrounding the two voices coming from all around.

“God loves you, Christina.”

“God loves you, Christina,” the male voice mocked. “Really, then where was that God, Christina, when Katrina left you all alone? Where was that God when you needed help, guidance, and protection? Where?”

Christina felt the hope within her heart fade, seeing some of the flowers bury themselves in the sand. “Well,” she thought.

“Christina,” the female began, “God does love you. He doesn’t promise a life without struggle or a life without pain. But, He does promise to help you through it, to be with you always, if you believe in Him.”

“Loophole,” he responded. “Just His way of taking joy in watching people suffer and then trying to draft them to His side, Christina. He’s a charlatan, a fraud. You can’t just love Him. Oh, no. You have to follow all the rules, play the game. This is just a game to Him. He won’t let you in.”

“What do you mean,” Christina asked.

The male voice began again, as taunting as before. “Well, let’s see. First you have those commandments. Ten, aren’t there? Let’s see,” he paused. “Uh, there’s that honor thy Father and Mother. You kind of come and go on that one like you can’t make up your mind. Then, there’s the one about not committing murder. Oh, Chrissy, you blew that one right off the books. Let’s see, what else. Oh, yes, don’t take that God’s name in vain. Well, let me tell you, Christina, when you get angry, you can let it rip.” He laughed. “And, let’s see, you put the Oak above anything and everybody. But, the one you really had trouble with is that one about coveting. Yeah, that was a real deal breaker. Christina, you coveted Katrina’s happiness, her very life, along with other things. Come to think of it, you didn’t do too well with those seven deadly sins either. Do you really think that if you take that long walk with them they’ll let you through the door when you get there. You didn’t play the game by their rules, Christina. They’re just waiting for to pounce the punchline on you.”

Christina began to cry, her tears as blood as it dripped onto the sand.

“God forgives, Christina,” the female explained. “He doesn’t expect anyone to be perfect. Humans aren’t perfect, but God is and God will forgive transgressions if forgiveness is truly requested in the heart. God wants you to feel peace, the peace you’ve been without for so much of your life. That is His gift to you.”

“Don’t listen to them, Christina. I’m telling you. It’s a loophole, this forgiveness.”

“So, everyone can be forgiven,” Christina sobbed.

“Yes.”

“Think about that for a minute, Chrissy,” the male said. “Think real hard about what that means. Forgiveness for everyone. Everyone, Christina. No one is eliminated. Everybody can be forgiven. Think about that.”

“I don’t understand,” Christina sobbed, the blood solidifying the sand, yet her hands beginning to sink between the grains.

And, the male voice paused and then whispered. “Steven.” And, again, he whispered. “Steven.” His voice a bit louder he said, “Oh, and George. Don’t forget George, Christina,” his voice rising. “If everyone can be forgiven, do you really want to spend eternity in the place where those two might be, a place willing to let them in? He expects you to have a forgiving spirit. But, what about all the pain you felt? Isn’t that worth anything? You come with me, and I’ll give you the right to feel that pain. I’ll encourage you to feel however you feel.”

Christina continued to cry, and the blood continued to pool, Christina somehow sinking into hardened, solid pools of burning sand and blood.

“The one you hear will offer you an eternity of physical and emotional torment, Christina. The pain that you’ve felt in the life you have known will be increased a hundred fold and be with you throughout eternity. God offers you peace, redemption, safety, and, yes, forgiveness for the wrongs you have committed as well as forgiveness for those who have committed wrongs against you. Which path do you choose, Christina? The time has come and you must answer. Indecision will be considered by God as choosing the path of despair.”


Christina became more restless, laying there in bed, as the snow fell outside. She continued to mumble, though there was no one about to hear, Lisa and Monica having ventured to the kitchen for coffee when Christina was resting comfortably. Christina’s eyes were shut, but her ears heard the wind still knocking at the window like a visitor wanting inside.

“Christina,” the voice said, “come with me.”


Dust and sand began to cloud and fly about, circling Christina’s body. The still, silent air became a fierce wind, lashing about and screaming as Christina continued to sink in the bloody sand.


“What is death like,” she hollered above the wind.
“It is simply like falling asleep,” the female voice answered calmly, finding her way through the wind as if the wind were not present.

Christina looked up toward the harsh sun that had turned black and the vacant sky that had become dark, with gathering clouds filled with rain. Then, two hands came down between the clouds, opening into a receptive position like a Mother preparing to pick up her babe.

“The time is now, Christina,” the calm voice said. “You must choose.”

And, Christina sobbed, “’Our Father which art in Heaven, Hallowed by thy name…’” Over and over Christina repeated the prayer. And, the screaming ceased, as did the harsh winds. And, the rain fell, removing her from the hardened pool of burning sand into which she had been sinking and cleansing her of the blood she had cried.


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

Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated August 1, 1999

August 1, 1999

Katrina,

Last night, I sat at Father’s desk as a cool rain fell outside, looking through old family photograph albums. Within those pages are stories never told, stories that shall remain lost to the world forever until they are saved from being lost, told, given away.

A special album was dedicated solely to your wedding, and I spent much time remembering that day. Surely, that is a day you would be unable to forget.

You and Robert had suggested waiting to have the wedding until after the war but Father, in a letter, explained that you should not put your life on hold for any reason, that under all circumstances life must move forward. The letter was pressed between the pages of the album, and I read it several times last night. I wish I had truly understood its meaning then as I understand it now.

The album contained photographs of the wedding, the guests, the reception; with the album were copies of cards, notes, and letters wishing well the happy couple. And, as I looked through photographs, that day replayed in my mind as if it were just yesterday.

Robert was handsome, as always, in his black tails when he arrived at the house that fall morning. He was Father’s age and had earned a small fortune in the banking industry, owning his own bank, a path he chose to follow after he lost a hand, an injury from a prior war. Robert approached life with a healthy respect for fear, but was never ruled by it. He was a lot like father in that sense, loving life but willing to take some risks. Robert was mature and calm, educated, with a hearty laugh and eyes made only for you. And, it showed that day in the expression on his face when you walked toward him.

The day was crisp with excitement, colorful leaves of gold and red blanketing the ground but cleared away from the drive leading to the house. Sunny, but comfortably cool, it was as though the weather knew that this was to be a special day for you.

Mother stood behind you at the dresser in our room as she brushed your hair up, hiding pins beneath twists of curls and attaching the veil of lace. And, as she brushed, she reminded you of how proud Father would have been to see you on that day. You and I had stayed awake throughout the prior night talking of the changes to come for you, but your face showed not one hint of fatigue as they were filled with excitement for your new life. Betsy and I removed the dress from the mannequin carefully so as to prevent any tears to the lace and to keep the bright white color clean, and Mother helped you dress as Betsy and I busied ourselves with other tasks.

Betsy and the house staff had prepared a meal unlike any other and a beautiful cake of white decorated with white and red roses to match your bouquet; flowers that you chose and insisted on and, considering the time of year, had to be ordered special. Tables and chairs had been set up outside under a tent for the reception and the food, covered with large silver bowls with handles atop, was simply waiting for the ceremony to be over. The cake sat on a table by itself in the center of the tables and each table had a centerpiece of red and white roses. It was beautiful, elegant, much like you were that day.

I guess, in retrospect, it was symbolic to have a fall wedding with spring colors, although I thought it a bit odd at the time. But, roses were your favorite and you had always dreamed of a wedding with red and white roses. But, there you were, newly married around springtime colors, yet surrounded by experienced marriages and hopeful well-wishers in a sea of fall colors to help guide you into the autumn of your life. Almost, it was, as if the fall leaves were applauding your marriage and telling you that they would see you through to the end of time.

The wedding was in the grand room, just inside the front door. The photographs remembered details I had forgotten, such as the white chairs for the guests organized in lines facing the front door and draped with white linen, the large vases of red and white roses that sat on each side of the front door. The preacher and Robert stood atop the two platform steps just inside the front door, there amongst the flowers and lit by the sunlight coming in through the windows. It seemed so fitting, a gift from the house to you, to marry in the shadow of the strength of those doors. In the absence of Father, Mother waited at the bottom of the grand staircase for you and walked you down the aisle toward Robert.

Oh, that staircase. I remember it glistening from the rays of the morning sun, like it was proudly smiling for the honor of leading you to your marriage. Arched on each side and seven shoulders across in the middle with sturdy handrails following the angles, that staircase was the perfect entrance for you, its handrails outstretched as if offering you to Robert.

And, then, there you were, standing at the top of the staircase as the twelve-piece at the back of the room began to play. In a flowing gown of white covered in lace, with a bouquet of red and white roses and a veil that trailed behind, you were beautiful. The sleeves were long, the neck was high, and a fitted bodice sat above a flowing long skirt. You looked like an angel lit by the sun as you walked down those stairs, taking Mother’s hand at the bottom of the staircase and walking up to Robert.

I remember thinking that it was the first day of our lives that we had not dressed alike.

And, you never stopped smiling that day.

Guests ate and danced, gifts were opened, and toasts were made. The reception went on for the rest of the day until you and Robert drove away and into your new life. I was happy for you, Sister, I really was. But, never before that moment had I felt more lonely or lost, never had I been without you prior to that last moment that I was able to see you waving goodbye, fading into the distance.

Mother wrote a letter to Father that night, telling him all of the details of the event, of what a perfect day it was for all. At moments, Mother seemed lost between happiness for you and missing you, as any parent would. And, me, well, I walked about for a while, happy for you yet feeling uncertain about what to do without you. I watched George and some other workers disassemble the tent and, as they disconnected beams one from another, I felt as though they were disconnecting you from me.

By the time we had received word of Father’s death, you were with child. I was glad that you were able to return for the funeral but wished we had reunited for some other reason. Though letters had passed between us, it was never the same as having you here. I needed to talk to my sister, wiser with experience yet no older than I. But, time can’t be turned back. Father was correct, however, when he wrote that life should not be put on hold. I wish I had understood that then. Much time have I wasted. Much time.

I am so glad that Robert was good to you, keeping you happy, keeping you safe, the two of you blessed with children and grandchildren. I am glad that you knew love. And, I am comforted at knowing that he arranged for you to be financially secure when he was gone. The world lost a good man when Robert died, a good man indeed.

I hope to visit you soon, and I will bring you red and white roses... and this letter so I can read it to you.

Love always,
Christina

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

Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated July 29, 1999

July 29, 1999

Katrina,

It is a beautiful morning, blue skies above green fields, flowers stretching up to say hello to the angel sitting in the attic and then waving in the breeze to say hello to the other angels. It’s still cool outside, the night air not yet having evaporated into the sunlight, and a nice breeze is blowing through the window.

I had the most wonderful sleep last night, childhood memories returning disguised as dreams. Visions of croquet in the front of the house when company was present, visions of us running through fields of wild flowers, and a vision of mother lifting her eyes from a book and smiling at me in a way that seemed so real that I felt as though I had been transported back in time and allowed to see her again. I dreamed of the expression on your face when your oldest was born, though I was not there; and Father’s intelligent appearance; and, yes, I remembered George, the way his hair looked in the sun, his smile, the light in his eyes as he proudly boarded the train going to basic training. Sigh. Well-rested I am this morning.

It reminds me of the fragility of life. People should respect every moment we’re given. None of us ever knows how long we have to live. With each sunset, we close our eyes expecting to greet the new sunrise with our usual routine. People shouldn’t spend their lives waiting on opportunities or avoiding the direction our instincts tell us to follow.

If someone were to learn today that they had only one day left to live, would they be full of regret over lost possibilities and dreams never followed? Or would they find within their heart peace? No one knows how long we are to live, so we should cherish those little moments that mean so much, the smiles, the laughter, the love.

Dreams are paths to follow and the journey toward those dreams are tests, challenges of our heart, our perseverance, and our passion for life. When a dream takes hold of someone’s attention, when a soul feels a bit lighter because the dream has entered the mind, we can’t be afraid to fly. Intelligence can empower the imagination and guide someone down the avenue toward the dream; and the reward is avoiding the obstacle of regret.

Sisters forever,
Christina

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

Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated July 28, 1999

July 28, 1999

Katrina,

Is it beautiful where you are, Katrina? Do the hummingbirds flutter their wings, darting back and forth between flowers, lowering their beaks to taste the nectar? Do the lions protecting the gates of your abode slowly turn their stone heads, opening their eyes and smiling as they lift their noses to the scent of lilies drifting on the breeze with the honeysuckle? Is it peaceful? Is it quiet? From where you are, can your memory recall the quiet trickle of the water flowing through the creek that runs across the home-place, the creek where we once played as children? Can your mind reach back and feel summer Earth beneath bare feet? Can you see us in our youth carving our initials in the old oak tree down by the creek, splashing in the water, and having picnic lunches of apples and sandwiches made with Betsy’s sourdough bread? Can you recall helping with household chores and Mother helping us with our lessons and listening to the field workers brag or worry about the crop that existed on any given year? Can you, Kat?

You would still recognize the old home-place if you saw it, Sister. The Oak, like us, has grown older but, although some of the grandeur of yesteryear is gone, this old house still maintains its glory. The mountains still stand to the east, elegantly keeping watch over the property and counting time with the seasons. The lake at the edge of the fields still sparkles in blue, and the field of clover leading to it, I’m sure, still has a lucky petal or two. The fields are seeded and harvested now by machines much more than people, the care of the fields now entrusted to the son of the son of the man who worked those fields with Father. The house now has only a minimal staff, Betsy’s granddaughter and her two children. Then, of course, there is Monica, the young lady who helps take care of me; the one who helps me with things I can sadly no longer do myself. She is a kind soul and often takes me about the property in a wheelchair so that I can feel the sun and smell the honeysuckle and be reminded of the beautiful Oak that Father built for Mother as a wedding gift, this house where we were born, this house where my life has been spent. Mostly, though, I spend my days in this room, Father’s old office on the second floor, at his oak desk, looking out the window, writing, remembering, wondering.

In the spring, I saw the barn where we used to sit on bales of hay in the loft; talking and checking about our heads for spiders coming down from the roof; laying on our stomachs so that we could peer over the edge of the loft to watch the newborn calves sleep next to their mothers; or watching Whiskers hiss at the chickens only to see the chickens flap their wings and frighten that old cat.

The barn seemed like a holy place, protected by a sense of purpose with a resemblance to its immediate family, the trees on the property, and built with compassion for the creatures that called it home. For years, the barn was patched and repaired, but never painted. And, for decades, it proudly stood on the property like a monument to time.

That old barn still stands, its stalls still serving like small apartments for the animals within, the loft still seeming like a place of mystery and wonder. Repairs continue from time to time and care has been taken to shelter the planks from the seasons, but it still stands against the storms, against the rain, against the sun. Of course, it’s not exactly the same as it was in our youth, power lights, some additional windows, and some additional rooms having been added. The field workers now make their office in one of the new additions.

And this property, well, it has its own tale to tell. The road leading up to The Oak is now paved and, like a concrete hand, it continues to curve a finger, inviting people to continue up the road toward the house. The drive, still dotted on either side with the old oak trees, circles in front of the front door so that when someone leaves they are led back again as if the house is letting everyone know that they are welcome. In the middle of the circle, a garden of flowers has been planted, colors and sizes and plants arranged like a painting and, in the center, a water fountain made of stone with engravings of an oak tree all around it. In front of the fountain, Sister-- you would be so proud-- is a concrete plaque dedicated to Father explaining how he built this house for Mother, how he built this house with electricity and indoor plumbing, how he worked the land, how he earned his own way and didn’t rely solely on his father’s railroad inheritance, how he invested, how he served his country, and how he died. He and Mother’s stones are kept polished where they’ve rested for decades, there under the great oak tree at the foot of the mountain. Now, their stones, their graves, are enclosed in a small circular fence made of iron and painted white, surrounded by flowers and a circular concrete walkway. And, in the front of a small entrance to the circular fence is another plaque discussing more of Father and Mother’s triumphs and their life together.

Though these small rooms in which I usually remain still feel like home, so many changes have occurred to The Oak. I hope Father would approve. I suspect Mother would be proud.

Do you remember how we would grasp the knob of each front door, opening them simultaneously and walking through as if we were entering a great ball or walking on to a stage, giggling the entire time at our games? Those doors are still as opulent as ever, standing guard at the front of the house with the strength of aged oak and the inviting manner of a shade tree, the tops of the doors far above the heads of those who enter.

The house still appears massive when one comes up the drive, two stories with tall ceilings. The attic is still situated evenly over the front doors, comprising a partial third story with a roof that seems to spread out its arms toward the lower two stories in a protective stance. I used to lay in the grass and trace the outline of the house, up one side, sideways across the top floor, over the triangular roof of the attic, then across the other side of the house, and down again.<>

The stone angels, some draped in vines, still sit in their homes of wood above every window, beside the doors, and on an inserted platform in the attic overlooking the drive. Mother loved those angels, thinking that they protected the house and the family inside. Did they?

The house has grown older, its bones creaking from time to time as if stretching to relieve a cramp. The oak walls, still smooth and grand, still hug the light, reaching for it like a favorite doll and cuddling it until the light fades away. In the cooler months, the walls reflect the light of the flames of the fireplace as they flicker, teasing the walls with playful conversation. Sometimes, on an easy day, the walls seem to smile, offering a comforting and contented expression, almost as if they were whispering, “Good day,” to passers by.

Our family portraits still hang in the parlor. Mother’s favorite paintings and statues decorate the house, a reflection of her personality here and there. Father’s favorite sketch of The Oak has been moved from his office, where I usually stay, down to the sitting room. The grandfather clocks that tick away time sit positioned in their locations of royalty while smaller clocks, some of which belonged to our grandfathers, sit on shelves and mantles. And pottery, well, it seems that some of Mother’s favorite pieces, some from lands far away, are in every room.

It is so easy to determine which rooms were decorated by Father, with darker, masculine colors, leather fabrics, and his hunting trophies on the wall, and which rooms were decorated by Mother, with tapestries of rich colors, soft fabrics, mirrors, comfort, and a feminine quality. Mother’s formal dining room still houses her china with pretty flowers around the edges, silverware, and crystal; all sat upon Father’s oak table and surrounded by enormous high-back chairs covered in soft cushions with pretty patterns of flowers and vines.

Visitors still marvel at the house, a simple loveliness blended with privilege that created a home that was regal but livable, grand but comfortable and welcoming, warm and gracious.

But, mostly, I stay in our old bedroom and Father’s old office, up here on the second floor. There are memories of us all in these two rooms, memories of how Mother and Father would talk and laugh in his old office as Mother would sit on the sofa to sew and Father would sit at his desk to work on his books. There are memories of you and I laying on the floor or sitting in the chairs while we would read books from Father’s collection and then discuss what we had learned with him and Mother. It was in this office where Robert asked Father for permission to marry you. I know because I overheard. It was in this office where Father’s will was read and, later, Mother’s will. Decisions that have changed our lives forever have been made in Father’s office, some of which I remember with a sense of satisfaction and gratitude and some of which I would forget if I could. Sometimes, in life, we do what we want, sometimes we do what we can, and sometimes we simply do what we have to do.

Night is falling, like a blanket wrapping the Earth protectively, soothing the Earth into a restful sleep until daybreak. Through the window, I see the sun set, with blazing reds and yellows and blues streaking the sky; the day is not yet prepared to surrender to the night, still wanting to play outside like a young child not yet ready to sleep.

But unlike the day, I am prepared to rest for the night.

Good night, my Sister.

Always,
Christina

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

Letters Home: Section1, Letter dated July 26, 1999

July 26, 1999
Katrina,

Good morning, Sister. It is a beautiful morning with cooler temperatures and a slight breeze coming through the window.


Last night, I watched the sunset. Were you able to see it? I love to watch the sun set over the mountains. The mountains seem so tall, so dignified, that one feels as though a person could sit on the top of the ridge and put their chin on the shoulder of the sun, wrap arms around golden rays, exhale tension, and drift into a peaceful daylight slumber. It is in those moments that I realize the true grandeur of the Earth, the power of creation.


The mountains remind me of all that is truly free, naturally beautiful, simple, true, and at peace. Souls can be restored as they walk through the valley toward the steeps of dignity, taking note of the evidence of years that have gracefully passed, leaving their mark on nature forevermore. When I’ve walked through the valley, when the breeze gently brushed the hair off of the back of my neck and the sun warmed my face, I’ve lifted my eyes to the sky and witnessed the eagle’s quiet expression of freedom as it glided upon the wind. When I have walked toward the mountains, I could notice the brilliance of color as it rises up to the tree line of evergreens that bordered snowcapped peaks early into the summer season. The mountains have been my truest example of strength, the closest thing I’ve ever known to perfection and harmony, hope, God.


If one is quiet and still, between the rustling leaves, the calls of the eagle, and the occasional crackling of leaves beneath the feet, one can hear the stillness. But, silent the stillness is not. For, when a person becomes comfortable with the stillness, it will speak. In the heart, one can hear the mountain’s song sung by all of nature, teaching lessons learned from the generations, teaching how to care for the planet, teaching how to care for one’s self. The mountain’s song contains the wisdom beyond the human condition, the stories of the ages, the brilliance of Heaven, and a compassion for life that exceeds the total of all humankind combined. The mountain knows the answers to all of our questions about life and God and eternity, about healing broken hearts and repairing broken souls.


To the mountains is where I was guided when Father went to war. Do you remember that day, Katrina? I do. I shall never forget.


It was August. The day was overcast at times, but the fieldworkers said not to expect rain. I had no reason to doubt them, their sense of the weather being much more keen than my own. And, they were right for not a drop fell that day. The workers always seemed to be able to predict the weather, the rain and the droughts, a skill that came in handy for farming.


Father and Mother had gone to town earlier in the morning to obtain groceries, necessary supplies for housekeeping and, I suspect, to determine from the post master if Father’s birthday gift, his new pocket watch, had arrived. That watch was to be a surprise, Mother having told Father that she had ordered a new dress, but I think Father, in his infinite wisdom and skills of strategy, figured it out. Whether he did or whether he didn’t, no one ever really knew.


The housekeeping staff was fluttering with activity, food being readied and decorations arranged in preparation for Father’s birthday party on the evening of the next day. When the 22^nd arrived, Father was to turn 40 years old. Mother was determined that the party would outdo any other party that year, including the fall festival.


You and I, at seventeen, were quite adept at social events, Mother having schooled us in etiquette and proper ladylike behavior. Well, at least, proper ladylike behavior when in the company of strangers, neighbors, or anyone not associated with the property. That may never have been so clear to Mother as when she arrived home from town that afternoon.


White cake with chocolate frosting was always Father’s favorite, therefore becoming the cake of choice for his party. Betsy, the housekeeper, had made certain that everything needed to bake the cake was in the house and set aside for this special event. How we ever talked her into allowing us to bake the cake in her stead, I’ll never know.


We did well, mixing the batter, being certain to add just enough flour so that it was of the proper consistency. Like an assembly line, we worked together, mixing, test-tasting, dividing batter into pans, and baking. Hustling about the kitchen, six layers we made for a cake that would defy a wedding cake, building layers like steps leading up to a porch. The kitchen grew hotter as they day went on; the heat from the stove adding to the heat from the weather, creating a sensation that my stomach was somehow melting from the temperature; making my head spin at times like a top that you wind up and let go. I remember the sweat dripping down the back of my dress as I repeatedly went to the window for fresh air.


Betsy came in periodically to check on us, admiring our baking and complimenting us on our efforts, our teamwork. And, as soon as she would check on us, she would be gone to deal with decorations or that extra special cleaning that people do when guests are coming.


When the layers of cake had cooled in the pie safes that we had placed strategically on the window ledge, they were retrieved and brought to the table for frosting and stacking and decorating. Again, we sorted ingredients and mixed until we made frosting with just the right amount of chocolate, tasting spoonfuls of sugar along the way just because it tasted good and because no one was watching. The first layer was put into place on a serving platter and frosted to perfection; dowels were added, and the second layer gently put into place. We frosted and tasted and frosted, added layers, then frosted some more. The smell of cake and chocolate and sugar drifted on the air throughout the kitchen and, sometimes, found the way out the window and floated out to pasture. When the cake was covered in frosting, we decorated it as much as we could with flowers that Betsy had made of sugar, adding vines and leaves of green frosting. Although quite pretty, the cake kind of looked like a flower garden, blasts of color on top of a dark background. But, it was what Father wanted.


We praised ourselves, and deservedly so. Our reward for baking in the August heat was the remainder of the chocolate frosting. As Betsy took the cake to the cellar to prevent it from melting, we put spoons to the frosting left in the bowl. The kitchen was a mess; dirty dishes from our cake baking and frosting making littered the sink, the counter, and the table. Cleaning the mess would be our next task, you mentioned right before you giggled. That’s the last thing I remember before frosting hit me in the face. So, as any sister would, I returned the favor in kind, managing to get frosting on your face and dress. Together, we giggled and threw frosting, running about the kitchen, ducking here and there, as if it would save one of us from the chocolate throws. Frosting hit the walls and the table, some of it landed on the floor, and quite a bit of landed on our dresses, on our faces, and in our hair. (Frankly, dear, what were we thinking? It’s never a good idea to waste good chocolate.)


The giggling continued until Mother walked in and was splattered on the cheek with some frosting intended for you. The giggling stopped immediately. Mother wasn’t laughing either. Betsy walked in soon after Mother, sighing as she talked about how proper ladies didn’t behave like this. Father came in next, muffling a chuckle as he saw us covered in frosting. We muffled a few chuckles ourselves when we saw him.


Then, George walked in. I don’t think I’ve ever swallowed so hard as I did when I realized that he, of all people, had seen me covered in chocolate frosting like a child. And, me seventeen! My heart sank, thinking he’d never notice me after seeing me like that. And what I wanted more than anything in the world at that time was for George to notice me, to think of me fondly, to ask me to the fall festival. After all, we were at the age to marry; you had been promised to Robert with the fall wedding already planned and George had held my heart since the first time I met him.


No one moved momentarily, until Father told everyone to clean up because news was to be shared. His expression had turned more serious.


It was August 21^st when Mother stood bravely beside Father and the two of us were instructed to sit on the sofa in the sitting room. It was impossible to mistake that the house, which earlier had been busied with party preparations, had grown still and silent. A restless seriousness had settled on the air, permeating the walls that now seemed to hang their heads with worry, pushing away the sunlight that they usually embraced.


I remember Father’s derby hanging on one arm of the coat rack while his overcoat hung on another. I remember listening to the silence of the house, a heavy silence that seemed to know the past and future. I remember Father standing there, his sleeves rolled up above his wrists, the stains beneath the arms of his vest, an attempt at a comforting expression on his face. I remember Mother standing beside him, her hands placed around his arm, just above his elbow, proper, strong.


“We’ve encouraged you girls to learn of events in the world. We’ve encouraged you to be able to think for yourselves, to educate yourselves,” he began. “So, it is no surprise to you that attempts to end the war have failed.”


I remember him pausing as if he were trying to find the right words. President Wilson, he explained, had tried every opportunity to keep us from the war, but no successful manner was found. The world had chosen a goal of power and control over peace, and the cost was human life. Father tried to comfort us, to reassure us that he would find his way back to us safely, but Mother’s tears exposed her true fear of another possibility.


Father had been a career military man, sometimes keeping the farm afloat from afar with instructions in telegrams and letters. He had taught Mother all he knew and she had become as efficient at running the farm as he. But, it wasn’t the same.


Father showed us the telegram he had received, instructing him to meet with the troops to travel overseas. He was scheduled to leave at nine o’clock in the morning on August 22^nd .


There was no party, a part of this old house dying on that day as if it knew a secret and refused to tell us. We said goodbyes on the morning of his departure in that same sitting room, with a few Happy Birthdays thrown in for good measure until Father, appearing distinguished in his officer dress, left us that day. As we watched him leave, how could we have known the future.


A week later, Father’s birthday gift, the watch, arrived in the mail. Mother kept it in her dresser, in her drawer filled with special trinkets, as she awaited Father’s return. Then, on December 31^st, the day before our birthday, he was returned to us in a box with a telegram that said that he had been shot, killed in battle, and had served his country well. He was buried with that watch.


And, we were never quite the same. Mother seemed strong and capable when Father was away, but when she realized he was gone from this Earth her strength seemed to turn into madness, her intellect into fear. Father had always been wonderful at making Mother laugh, but after his death her laughter ceased as if it had been buried with him. By the time the treaty was signed, ending the war, Mother had grown ill and died. The doctor called it pneumonia, but I think she really died of a broken heart, of a need to be with Father.


Sometimes, in the silence of the evening hours, I still hear their laughter echoing softly through the halls and I wonder if, sometimes, they come back home to visit, coming home to their precious Oak.


During those months of Father's absence and following the news of his death, I walked up the mountain daily, sitting at the top and viewing the world below, allowing the tree limbs to guide me upward on my walk, allowing the breeze to sing a song of peace, listening to the Earth whisper to the world of the value of life. It kept me calm, it kept me going, it provided me serenity in a time of chaos.


If, when we die, we can choose where our spirit goes, you’ll find me at the mountaintop with my arms outstretched and breathing in the hope of creation. Surely, Heaven must exist on the top of a mountain, originating the winds of peace and change that blow throughout the world and whisper into the souls of every heart.

Well, the day is getting on and my eyes have grown tired. I shall stop writing for now. I miss you, Kat. And, suddenly, I yearn for chocolate frosting. And, down the hall, I hear the faint sound of laughter.

Sisters forever,
Christina

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

Letters Home: Section 1, Letter dated July 25, 1999

July 25, 1999

Katrina,

The sun is beaming down beneath a picture perfect sky of blue and white and, as always, you are on my mind. As I sit here, staring out the window, dazed and confused by the earlier rhythm of the porch swing, the hum of the air conditioner, and the sparkling glare of a ninety degree sun bouncing on and off the water of the lake as if jumping in and out for a cool swim, I feel the desire to contribute to someone’s life, as I told you about when I visited. It is with these thoughts that I write this letter, hoping that these words will leave behind a legacy for some soul I may never know, possibly creating some ease where pain had been by sharing some of the lessons I’ve learned; thinking that on some cold winter night, when the wind blows through a soul, ignoring their existence, and the quiet desperation of loneliness is felt deep within, that these letters will be read and the comfort of a friend will be felt.


There is so much that has happened within these walls. If only walls could talk, what would they say about the lives that have passed within?


So much of our life is spent focusing on trying to achieve something in our future or worrying about something from our past that we forget that this moment we currently hold in our hands is passing away as smoothly and as predictably as a mountain stream. When we use all of our energy fretting over what we don’t have, what we want, or what we’ve already missed, we lose our opportunity for joy.


Life is a journey, and our time here is passive. Our only guarantee at birth is that we will someday die. The only question is how much time we will spend here on Earth. So, why waste a moment and exchange an opportunity to laugh or to smile for that of something more negative, something that will drain us of hope instead of inspiring us to move on, to learn.


There are many moments of joy that we overlook; not so much because we are blind to the beauty, but because we see with our eyes instead of our hearts. Open a heart and you will discover all of these wondrous opportunities to smile. It’s been said to “stop and smell the roses,” but life is so much more than roses. People need to take time to notice the happy tears of the dew upon the flowers as they open their petals to the light of a new day, waving their leaves to their old friend, the Sun, with a cheerful, “Good morning.” We need to notice the patient smile on a dog as he rests with crossed paws, observing his territory as he waits for children to come out and play. We need to notice that the trees seem to stretch their limbs upward, stretching up tall with a deep inhale and a quiet yawn as they greet the day.


Taking the time to watch a sunrise or a sunset, watching the water flow, or listening to the stories of the wind, an appreciation is grown for the wonders of the world, an appreciation that will assist in slowing down the pace of life so that every moment can be experienced. And, when every moment is experienced, one can truly feel blessed for the few moments we have on this Earth, those moments when we truly feel alive.


I’m always questioning, wondering why we’re all here, what is life all about, what is the meaning of life. And, after all of these years, I’ve finally come to learn a possible answer. When people laugh -- really laugh -- and weightlessness is felt about the body and the stomach feels light; in that incredible moment is the answer because in that moment we experience true honesty and happiness, humanity. The secret of life is to experience those moments as often as possible.


Did we, the souls that have passed through these walls, written at this desk, live, take advantage of those wonderful moments when joy could have been experienced instead of heartache? Did we take the time to watch the sunsets, the sunrises, to notice the tall reeds, aided by the breeze, wave at the sky, happy to be alive? Did we? How would these walls, which have grown stronger and wiser with time, standing tall against the storms, its corners hugging the noon day sunlight, answer that question?


Katrina, can you remember when we were young, when we lived for laughter and mocked at fear, daring anyone to impede our exploration of the world? Can you hear my voice when I write these letters, Kat? Can you recall the laughter of two girls dressed as one parading around a summer field with Father’s old top hat and baton, making up songs to sing as we marched along, with Whiskers nearby ready to pounce on a bumblebee, when we knew not the toll of war or the care of money or the loss of love or the importance of time?


What happened to those girls of yesteryear? Did we grow up or old or did we simply stop growing at all?


I’ll write again soon. Perhaps I’ll write in the morning hour when the sun doesn’t shine so brightly through the window, illuminating the dark well of bad decisions.

As always,
Your loving sister,
Christina

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