By: Kari P
California, Grade: 7

February 12, 1932

Dear Diary,

I wish I could say that today was better. I wish I could tell you that Becky is doing fine, that the dust has cleared, and that by some miracle, Papa’s money that was lost in the stock market crash has suddenly returned to our household. But I cannot. This would be a lie, a fabrication, a figment of my wishful imagination. And besides, the truth is burning me up inside.

To begin with, Doc Pieters says that Becky is dying. And to picture your ten-year-old sister in a casket, even one with cushions and lace and a polished hood, is one of the hardest, most anguishing things I’ve had to do. She is my light, the only flame in my heart that hasn’t been blown out by the dust. How can she die? I can’t let this happen! I can’t let her wither away, slowly fading and shriveling away into nothingness, like everything else here in Oklahoma. The crops have withered, the trees have withered, and now my own flesh and blood, my Becky, is withering too. O, Father in heaven, what has she done wrong? Why must she leave me? Why?!

But enough of this! I’ve done it again; I’ve begun to cry. You see, if I begin to cry, I’ll continue crying for hours. If you are like me, and you live in the Dust Bowl, there is so much to cry about! I could drown in my tears. So I must now shift my attention to something less depressing, something funny or enjoyable… O, bah! There is nothing funny or enjoyable in my life that I could think about! Nothing at all!

With that in mind, I must close this little book now so that I may cry appropriately.

Later…

It’s midnight, but I cannot sleep. Not with Becky in the other room, wailing and moaning in pain. It’s a haunting sound she makes, almost like the wind, when it whispers in your ear. It’s enough to keep me awake all night!

I’ve returned to you only because I must record a poem I wrote, today out by the mulberry tree in the yard. I’m afraid I’ll forget it before I finish writing, so I’ve got to be quick, for it’s rather long.

You were right, Becky.
Oklahoma is no place
For girls with dreams,
For girls with a gift,
For girls with long legs that
Are especially useful for climbing trees.
Oklahoma is no place
For a girl like me.
You were right, Becky.

And Becky, do you remember
The day that we sat there
In the mulberry tree,
And the tree still had leaves
And the tree still had hope
To one day yield fruit,
And you told me your dream?
Your California dream.
Your dream of moving out,
Out of the shadows.
The darkness.
The dust.
Do you remember?

And when you left me, Becky,
Me and the dust,
The tree where we sat,
The mulberry tree,
The tree with the hopes
And the gift
And the legs
That are especially useful
For climbing things,
Died
When you left me, Becky.


February 13, 1932

Dear Diary,

Doctor Pieters said that Becky died last night because of malnutrition. “She needed more food,” he said. “More food, and she’d be alive.” But she didn’t die because of food. She died because of the dust. The dust is black, and so is Death. It came, seeping into our lives slowly, gradually, like the trickle of water from a spout. It oozed into Oklahoma, blotted out the sun, polluted the air, clung to Becky’s life like a leech, and stole her from us. Death found the liveliest, most spirited being imaginable, and removed her grace and benevolence from the face of the earth. Now all Mama and Papa have is me. I’m sure they’ll throw themselves off a cliff.

I think I shall as well.

But why am I rambling on and on to you? You’re merely paper and leather, sewn together haphazardly with no voice or soul or anything! And even if some unfortunate individual does happen to stumble upon this diary, they won’t be able to read it; my tears have already bled the ink on this paper, making even the letters as I write them illegible.

I suppose my torments and suffering will never be known, therefore I shall close this book permanently and leave you. I’m going to cry in my room once again, and this time, maybe I really will drown in my tears.

Sincerely,
Laura McMillan