Vox Meditantis

San Francisco, California
15th October, 1912

My Dearest Grace,

The Pacific fog rolls in as I write to you this evening, wrapping San Francisco in its familiar embrace, yet I find myself transported not to these rebuilt streets of California, but to that sun-dappled afternoon last spring when we walked amongst the cherry blossoms in your father’s orchard in Pennsylvania. How curious it is that distance can make the heart travel such impossible miles in the span of a single thought.

I have been working on the construction of the new Hobart Building these past months, and today, as I stood upon the scaffolding watching the sun pierce through the morning mist over the Bay, I was struck by such a profound sense of joy that I very nearly called out your name to the winds. For in that moment, I imagined you standing beside me, your hand warm in mine, marvelling at how this city rises anew from its ashes—much as my own heart has risen anew since knowing you.

The gentlemen here speak often of the marvels of our modern age—the telephone exchanges that connect coast to coast, the great ocean liners that make the world seem smaller with each crossing. Yet for all these wonders, my darling Grace, nothing can bridge the ache of missing you save the promise of our reunion. Your last letter, which arrived on Tuesday’s post, I have read no fewer than a dozen times. When you wrote of the golden leaves beginning their autumn dance outside your window, I felt such a bittersweet longing that I stood immediately and walked to the window of my modest lodgings, as if I might catch sight of those very same leaves carried here upon the wind.

Do you remember, my dear one, when we spoke of building a life together? How we sketched our dreams in the air with gestures grand and small—the house we might inhabit, the garden you would tend, the children who might one day call us home? These visions sustain me through the long days of labour and the longer evenings of solitude. I have been saving every penny I can spare, and I am pleased to report that by spring, I shall have enough to purchase two tickets on the Union Pacific—one for my journey eastward to you, and one for your return journey here, should you find San Francisco to your liking.

I confess, my heart beats with such anticipation when I consider the possibility of showing you this remarkable city. The cable cars that climb impossible hills, the grand hotels rising along Market Street, the ships from distant lands bringing silk and spices to our wharves—all of it waits to be discovered through your eyes. Yet it is not the marvels of this place that fill me with joy, but rather the prospect of sharing them with you, of watching your face light with wonder as mine has done these many months.

Your photograph sits upon my writing desk, and I find myself speaking to it as if you were present. “Grace,” I say, “you should see how the fog transforms the city each morning, how it retreats like a stage curtain to reveal the drama of another day.” I imagine your laughter in response, that musical sound that has haunted my dreams and blessed my waking hours in equal measure.

I have been reading Tennyson in the evenings, and I came across verses that seemed written precisely for this moment: “But O for the touch of a vanished hand, and the sound of a voice that is still!” How perfectly he captures this sweet torment of loving someone beyond reach, yet how inadequate his words seem when measured against the depth of what I feel for you.

The workers here have begun to call me “the dreamer,” for I am often caught gazing westward toward the ocean, or eastward toward the mountains, as if I might divine some faster passage to your side. They jest, but kindly so, for each man among them carries his own tender memories of sweethearts left behind in distant places. We are a nation of dreamers, it seems, building our futures with calloused hands whilst our hearts remain forever young.

I must tell you of a moment that occurred just yesterday, for it filled me with such hope that I could scarcely contain it. I was walking through Portsmouth Square in the early morning when I witnessed a young couple’s reunion—she had clearly travelled far to reach him, for she still wore her travelling dress and carried a small valise. The joy upon their faces as they embraced was so profound, so utterly radiant, that every person in the square paused to witness it. I stood transfixed, my dear Grace, for in their faces I saw our own future reflected—that moment when this impossible distance between us shall finally collapse into the simple miracle of your presence.

Write to me soon, my beloved. Tell me of the changing seasons in Pennsylvania, of your days at the schoolhouse, of the small moments that fill your hours. Your letters are my compass in this vast country, pointing me always toward the true north of your affection.

Until that blessed day when I can speak these words directly to your ear rather than trust them to paper and postmark, I remain,

Your devoted and ever-faithful,

Frank Stewart

P.S. I have enclosed a small photograph of the Golden Gate strait taken from my lodgings—the very view that greets me each morning and reminds me that even the widest waters cannot diminish the strength of true affection.

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