Vox Meditantis

San Francisco, California
15th October, 1911

My Dearest George,

How the autumn winds carry whispers of you to me this evening, as I sit by the window of my modest lodging on Powell Street, watching the gas lamps flicker to life against the gathering dusk. The fog rolls in from the bay with such melancholy beauty, yet it cannot compare to the mist that clouds my thoughts—all of them centred upon you, my beloved, so very far away in your Mississippi.

It has been three months, two weeks, and four days since your last letter arrived, and I confess the waiting has become a sweet torment that consumes my every waking moment. I trace the lines of your familiar hand upon the paper until the ink threatens to fade beneath my fingertips, memorising each carefully chosen word as though it were a prayer. How foolish I must seem, clutching these precious pages to my breast as I fall asleep each night, imagining they still carry the warmth of your touch.

Do you remember, my darling George, that golden afternoon by the river when we first met? The way the sunlight caught in your dark hair as you helped me retrieve my fallen parasol from the water’s edge? I was visiting my cousin Elena in Biloxi, and you were but a stranger then—yet something in your gentle manner and the earnestness of your brown eyes spoke to my very soul. Even now, as I write these words, I can feel the flutter of my heart just as it did in that moment when our hands touched, ever so briefly, as you returned my parasol with such gallant courtesy.

The weeks that followed seem now like a dream spun from golden thread and moonbeams. Those stolen hours we spent walking the harbour whilst the shrimp boats returned with their daily catch, the whispered conversations beneath the ancient oaks draped in Spanish moss, the evening when you sang to me in that rich, warm voice that still echoes in my dreams. How your eyes sparkled when you spoke of your ambitions, your plans for the future, your hopes of making something of yourself in this vast, changing world.

I find myself treasuring every small detail of our time together with the devotion of a scholar poring over illuminated manuscripts. The way you laughed at my attempts to pronounce the French phrases I’d learnt from the sisters at the convent school, your patience when I stumbled over the unfamiliar words. The manner in which you would pause mid-sentence to watch a pelican dive into the bay, your face alight with such simple wonder. These memories have become my most precious possessions, more valuable than any jewellery or fine clothes.

The fog has lifted now, and I can see the lights of the ships in the harbour, each one a beacon in the darkness. How I long to board one of those vessels and sail to you, to cross this great continent that separates us with nothing but the strength of my devotion to guide me. Yet I know I must remain patient, must trust in the plans we have made, even as my heart rebels against the distance between us.

I have secured employment with Mrs. Hastings, the banker’s wife, teaching her young daughters their letters and numbers. The work is pleasant enough, though I confess I find my thoughts wandering to you even in the midst of lessons about arithmetic and geography. Yesterday, little Mary asked why I smiled so often whilst reading, and I hardly knew how to explain that even the simplest words upon a page remind me of your voice speaking them.

My mama writes that she grows increasingly concerned about my unmarried state, particularly as I have now reached my twenty-third year. She speaks of suitable young men in the neighbourhood—merchants’ sons and clerks with steady prospects. How can I tell her that my heart has already chosen, that it beats only for a man she has never met, who lives a thousand miles away and writes letters that arrive like small miracles in my letterbox?

I dream of the day when we shall be reunited, when the long months of separation will fade like morning mist before the sun. In my most cherished reveries, I imagine you stepping from the train at the Southern Pacific depot, your dear face scanning the crowd until you find me waiting there. I picture the moment when you take my hands in yours once more, when I can look into your eyes and know that all our waiting, all our longing, has led us to this perfect instant.

Until that blessed day arrives, I remain your devoted and ever-faithful correspondent. Please write to me soon, my darling George, for your letters are the very breath of life to me. Tell me of your work, your days, your dreams—everything, no matter how small, for I hunger for every detail of your existence.

The clock in the hall has just chimed ten, and I must close this letter, though I could write until dawn and still not exhaust all that fills my heart when I think of you. Know that you are loved beyond measure, beyond reason, beyond the very stars that shine above us both.

With all my love and devotion,
Your ever-faithful Alice

P.S. I have enclosed a small photograph of myself taken at the studio on Market Street last month. Though it cannot capture the warmth in my eyes when I think of you, let it serve as a reminder that someone waits faithfully for your return, counting each day until we are reunited once more.

---

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