The Return Home

July 1, 1899

Dear Mother and Brother,

I saw him when I arrived in New York. Father. He was huddled in the corner, homeless, wrapped in a blanket and his face dirty, but I recognized him as soon as I saw him. As I approached him, his eyes remained downcast, and extended his hand for some spare change. When I didn’t respond, he looked up and he stared, recognition showing in his eyes. For a minute we stood there, staring at each other, me at the image of poverty, what I could have been had I not been so fortunate, and him at the image of wealth and sickness. Shakily he stood up, still staring at the gaunt figure of his son and at the expensive suit he wore. Finally he stood. Emaciated at he was, he carried himself with dignity, his back straight and his face proud. Slowly, his eyes crinkled as he smiled, and he embraced me. What a strange pair we must have looked like; a well-dressed man embracing an old beggar on the street, both crying and laughing at the corner of the street. After our reunion, the first thing I did was to take him to a diner, where he ate more than he had probably did in months. During this time he was able to tell me his story, how he had entered New York with hopes and dreams like I had, but instead had been chewed and spit out, cast out like a leper. He told me how language barriers had made it difficult for him to find work and eventually he could no longer afford the housing bills. Without any skills within the city, and without the money to travel to a farm to work, he was trapped and eventually found his way to the street. In a city where thousands lived, he was an insignificant speck in the metropolis. But I will get him home. Already I have ordered a second first-class ticket on the steamer home and bought sufficient clothes for the journey. Though I have not told him specifically my condition, I suspect he knows already. While I may not live to see the next year, I am at least reassured that I have found what I sought and can now return home in peace. It’s time for the journey home.

Love,

Alberto

The Eighth Letter

July 26, 1899

Dear Mother,

I am not sure if you expected another letter, but the disease is progressing far slower than I thought it would, giving me strength to write. In the week that has passed, I have spent a lot of time thinking. I have considered the months I have spent on the farm, the fruitless attempts of finding father, and my own mortality. Would I want to die here alone, without you or brother or father? What is the point of coming to this land that has taken more than it has given? It is with these thoughts that I came to a conclusion at the end of the week. I have decided to come home, so that I may at least see you before I pass. Already I have purchased a first-class ticket on a steamer bound for Genova, a trip that will be much more comfortable than my trip here. Tomorrow I will submit my resignation to the boss take the train ride back to New York. The gears are in motion, the sails have been raised. It’s time for the journey home. I will write to you once more when I arrive at New York.

Take care,

Alberto

The Seventh Letter

July 19, 1899

Dear Mother and Brother,

The doctor said it was tuberculosis. The signs, he said, were clear. The lethargy, the general unease, and then recently the blood I coughed up while in the fields, staining the leaves red. I asked him many questions, how this had been caused, if it was curable, how much would I pay, what were my options if there were no medicine, and finally, how long I would have left to live. Five months. That’s what the doctor said I had left. Five months to find father, five months to send money back to you, five months to write as much as I can before I’m gone. But the thing is, I do not know what to tell you. The search for father has gone nowhere, the days on the farm continue with seemingly no beginning and no end, and life continues on in the doldrums. The only event that has occurred has been this sickness. For the most part, I thought I had been cured. The herbal remedies had seemed to help, for days I had felt okay, and the feeling of sickens had passed. But the doctor claimed, the disease had never really left, and instead had been dormant within my body, coming back when it pleased. That is what I fear most, a dormant monster within me that I am unable to fight or control. The boss though has taken sympathy on me and has allowed me to live my potentially final days in peace. If this is the last letter I may send you two, know that I love both of you deeply. Enclosed in the box is my last gift, as many gold coins as I felt I could safely send you. They should be enough to ensure you two live a comfortable life forever. Take care.

Love,

Alberto

The Sixth Month

June 17, 1899

Dear Brother,

I hope you were surprised with the money that I sent home. I’m sure it’s more than enough, but as I’ve told mom, I hope you spend it wisely. Things are somewhat better than the month before, no longer do I worry about food, or place to sleep. But it is my moral that continues to be low for reasons I do not know of. In the mornings, I wake after a long rest and yet I still feel tired. The world seems sluggish and the grey of the walls and brown of the floor seem ever more flat and dark. There is no motivation for me to help in the fields or at the desk. In my opinion, I doubt the medicine the doctor gave me the month before, a prescription of a tonic for general illnesses as well as some kind of herbal remedy I could concoct at home. Though my other discomforts went away, I wonder if it was simply replaced instead by this constant lethargy.  I am no expert on medicine, but I believe it is safe to say, I should not be feeling like this after the treatment. But because of my energy, I think I will wait until he comes around the farm next week or so. I do not think it is a big issue to worry about; I am simply frustrated that I have been so unproductive. Hopefully, in my next letter I will be able to bring better news. Enjoy the money brother, and I will write to you when I can.

Your brother,

Alberto

The Fifth Month

May 6, 1899

Dear Mother,

I’m sorry I have not written to you in while. I have had a bad case of food poisoning that left me quite sick. I’m not sure what it was, perhaps it was the bread or milk, which may have been spoiled. I’ve probably been rationing my food for too long, but that is about to change. I believe it is fate that has finally smiled upon me mother, for yesterday, in the fields, I came across a buried chest. How no one else unearthed it, I do not know, but inside this chest, I found a great amount of dirty coins, which upon closer inspection and much cleaning turned out to be gold coins. Thinking quickly, I hid the chest under some clothes in my room, and I only spent what I needed, buying medicine, and sending a great amount home to you. Because my health has greatly improved, I am once again optimistic and I have picked up the search for father again, this time with a great amount of resources. Now it would seem odd for me to leave the farm so suddenly with so much money in my pocket, so for now I have decided to stay and finish up the season before my resignation. Enclosed you will find enough money to make up for the past months and more. Please spend it wisely, as even this much wealth can disappear without prudence. Tell brother I send him my regards.

Love, 

Alberto

The Fourth Letter

March 13, 1899

Dear Mother,

I have written mostly to brother in the past months, but I believe it is time that I wrote to you. My health has not improved over the past months, and although I want to remain positive, it has become increasing difficult. Recently, I have begun coughing up blood, on top of the fever and hallucinations I have been experiencing. There are times where I can smell the grape vines, and the Italian air, and only later do I realize that it has been my mind playing tricks me. I will spare you the details of my predicament. I do not wish you to worry anymore than you have to, but I feel that you should know. Though I have moved to Kansas to continue my farming job and perhaps recover with some fresh air, I have not been able to work and so I have spent my days in my small room, trying my best to recover. In this vast farmland, finding medical attention is difficult and so my best option is only rest with the meager food supply of bread and soup I can afford. My supervisor grows increasingly impatient, and so I struggle with the pressures of maintaining my position and fighting for my health. I do not have many friends, as most of Italian farmers are only here for the money, eager to return to Italy. I suppose once I have found father, I will be able to return as well. But my sickness has taken a great toll on my optimism, and at times I wonder if it is worth it anymore, that perhaps he has gone, and I am on a fool’s errand to find him. My main focus now is regaining my health, and I am unsure of even that. I miss home, working in the vineyard with Enzo on our farm. Tell him, I send my love.

Love,

Alberto