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
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