I woke up with the straw mattress prodding me from underneath. All seemed calm and peaceful, but that certain smell, that certain feel in the air, it wasn't just right. I had learned to live with it ever since the potato crop failed. There was no laughter in the house anymore everybody wrapped up in their own problems. I could hear the whisper of my mother and father from the next room- something about the workhouse, increased rent. I was too young to understand anyway. My eyes finally came to rest on the small frail body of my sister, half-dead, half-alive. She lay transfixed on her bed as if in a deep dream. Everybody knew she wouldn't survive. Too young, too weak, her childhood ruined by the blight which struck in 1845. I didn't know who was to blame, the landlords, maybe even God. I could hear my sister's soft breathing on the air. Slowly, silently she was slipping away. It's 1847 now. The famine has wreaked havoc in our beloved land. Things will never be the same again.