December 13, 1944A Chapter by Summer WindtonThe diary of Carrie FosterDecember
13, 1944 Dear Diary, This is my
first diary. Ever. Aunt Rachel gave it to me before we boarded the ship to the
Americas. I don’t want to go. It’s not that we may be slaughtered like a lot of
the Jews. We’re Welsh so I don’t think there would be a problem. You see,
Mother died several days ago. She just died in her sleep. She went so
peacefully. It brings me to tears. I love my mother. I am now
on a ship with my little sister Ana, who’s seven, and my brother Ben who’s
nineteen. I’m just fifteen years old. I am now looking out onto the blue water,
feeling the cool rush of air settling on my back, looking at the shuffle of the
crowd on the deck. I think about Mother. She loved us so much. We’re
going to a city named New York. I have no idea where it is or what it’s like. I
heard it’s big. And beautiful. There’s a very tall statue of a woman there. I
heard it’s the most magnificent thing man has ever lain eyes on. Oh, I do hope
they are right. I want to be blown away by its sight. I wish
Mother were alive. Perhaps, I could’ve sent her a photograph of the statue. She
would’ve enjoyed that. My
brother, Ben, is sitting next to me, looking out over the water. He’s taken
Mother’s passing pretty hard. He did everything for Mother. Mother had been ill
for quite some time now. He did everything he possibly could for her.
Everything. I want to
find love while in York. Maybe I’ll fall in love with a dashing boy and we’ll
marry and have seven kids and a fine house with pillars. And a garden, of
course, with lots of flowers. I wish
that Mother would be alive to see that. Me and my fine husband holding hands,
my pregnant stomach sticking way out, and she, grayed with those fine blue eyes
of hers, holding my free hand. And occasionally feeling my stomach for any
kick. But that won’t happen. She’s gone now. My heart’s burdened so. © 2011 Summer WindtonAuthor's Note
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1 Review Added on October 5, 2011 Last Updated on October 5, 2011 AuthorSummer WindtonAboutI'm like the wind. I come and go. Born of the wind, and I will go back, with the wind. Some write for fortune, some for fame. Some because of grief or envy. I write because it was my destiny. .. more..Writing
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