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
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