The Crest

Karl examined the water-stained letter. It was crumpled and penned with a return address from his family home in Hechingen, postmarked September 1, 2021. He recognized the handwriting from his sister, written in German. He gently opened the envelope and put on his reading glasses. How does one read a letter from the past? he thought. His hand trembled, his pulse increased.

September 1, 2021

My dearest Karl.

By the grace of God, we hope and pray that you are safe and well. Father died a week ago of pneumonia. You should know that he asked about you in the end. He always asked about you. You were his only son, and he loved you so much.

Karl felt weak, sick to his stomach. He put the letter down and tried to collect himself. He took some deep breaths and continued reading.

Father wished that you could have been by his side at the end. But remember, he was proud of you, and the work you did in North America. We buried him in the Hechingen cemetery. Mama says her time is coming soon. I try to cheer her up the best I can.

Now, it is only mama and myself running the farm, actually only me, mama can’t do much, but there isn’t much to farm anyway. The water has dried up. We hadn’t heard from you. Communication stopped from abroad. But we learned of a ship sailing to the erstwhile territory of the United States so we posted this letter in the hope that it would reach you.

Please come home brother, we love you and miss you.

Your Sister Hilde

The man sat stunned. A numbness moved up his arm, he felt dead, gone to his family, removed from the land of his birth, and now gone from the planet he once knew. The tears fell down his cheeks. He laid his head down on his desk and wept.

Outside, the westerlies blew fiercely up the valley. The dust storms blasted through the foothills, all the way to the Crest.