Vox Meditantis

Cripple Creek, Colorado
15th October, 1907

My Dearest Martha,

The autumn wind carries a bitter chill through these mountain passes tonight, yet my heart burns with such warmth at the thought of you that I scarce notice the frost gathering upon my cabin windows. Three months have passed since I departed Chicago for this gold-mining venture, and each sunrise has brought with it a deeper longing for your gentle presence.

I write to you by the flickering light of a kerosene lamp, the sound of pickaxes still echoing in my ears from the day’s labours deep within the earth. The men here speak of fortunes to be made and dreams to be realised, but I confess that my greatest treasure lies not in these rocky depths, but in the memory of your sweet smile and the promise of your affection.

The mountains here are magnificent in their terrible beauty—peaks that pierce the very heavens, clothed in snow even as October wanes. Yet for all their grandeur, they cannot compare to the radiance I witnessed in your eyes that final evening we spent together in Lincoln Park. Do you remember how the gaslight caught the amber flecks in your gaze as we walked amongst the elm trees? The image has sustained me through countless dark hours underground.

I have secured lodgings with a respectable widow, Mrs. Kowalski, whose late husband perished in a mine collapse two winters past. She tends to my mending with the care of a mother, though she cannot mend the ache in my soul that only your presence might heal. The work is dangerous, Martha, I shall not deceive you in this matter. Each morning I descend into tunnels that might become my tomb, yet I am driven by the knowledge that every nugget of gold I extract brings me closer to the day when I might return to Illinois with sufficient means to offer you the security and comfort you so richly deserve.

The other miners speak often of their sweethearts—some left behind in distant states, others lost to the cruel realities of this harsh life. Last evening, a fellow named O’Malley received word that his beloved had accepted another’s proposal, unable to endure the uncertainty of his return. I witnessed the light die in his eyes, and I confess it filled me with such terror that I nearly abandoned my resolve and boarded the next eastbound train.

But then I recalled your words of encouragement, spoken with such conviction beneath the stars that final night. “Albert Rogers,” you said, your voice steady despite the tears glistening upon your cheeks, “I shall wait for you as surely as the Mississippi flows to the sea. Make your fortune, but do not forget that my heart travels with you always.”

Those words have become my prayer, whispered each morning as I prepare for the descent into darkness. They echo in the rhythm of my pickaxe and shine brighter than any lantern in the deepest shafts.

I have enclosed with this letter a small piece of quartz, shot through with veins of gold—not enough to make us wealthy, but perhaps sufficient to remind you that my love, like this precious metal, lies embedded deep within the bedrock of my very being. Wear it close to your heart, dearest Martha, as I carry thoughts of you close to mine.

The foreman estimates another six months before this claim yields its full bounty. By spring’s arrival, God willing, I shall return to you with enough to purchase that little house on Elm Street we admired, with its white picket fence and climbing roses. We shall be married in your father’s church, surrounded by all who love us, and I shall never again allow such distance to separate us.

Until that blessed day, I remain, with all the devotion a man’s heart can hold,

Your most faithful and loving,

Albert Edward Rogers

P.S. Please give my regards to your dear parents and tell them that I carry their blessing with me always. The photograph you gave me sits upon my bedside table, and each evening I bid you goodnight as though you were here beside me.

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Bob Lynn | © 2025 Vox Meditantis. All rights reserved.