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