Vox Meditantis

15th October, 1913
Elmhurst Women’s Residence
Chicago, Illinois

My Dearest Fred,

How many times I have taken up my pen to write to you, only to set it down again, my courage failing me like autumn leaves surrendering to the first harsh wind. Yet tonight, as the electric lights of this great city flicker beyond my window and the elevated trains rumble their mechanical lullabies, I find I cannot bear another moment’s silence between us.

It has been four months since I departed Phoenix—four months that stretch before me like the endless desert we once traversed together in your father’s motor-car, when the world seemed painted in shades of possibility rather than the grey uncertainty that now colours my days. How foolish I was to believe that distance might diminish what burns so fiercely within my heart. Instead, each mile that separates us only serves to magnify the terrible ache of my longing.

I know you must think me the most wretched of creatures for leaving as I did, with only that hastily scrawled note pressed into your dear hands as the Southern Pacific pulled away from the station. How could I explain then what I can barely articulate now? That Mama’s illness was but part of the truth—that the greater malady was my own cowardice, my inability to stand firm against the torrent of family expectations that threatened to drown us both?

Here in Chicago, amongst the towering edifices of steel and stone, I have found the employment Cousin Isabella promised—transcribing correspondence for Sidley & Austin, respectable work that pays sufficient wages to contribute to Mama’s medical expenses. Yet how hollow such respectability feels when measured against the warmth of your smile, the gentle strength of your hands as they guided mine whilst you taught me to handle the reins of your mare, Esperanza.

The other girls in the boarding house speak constantly of beaux and marriage prospects, their chatter as endless as the wind that howls between these urban canyons. They cannot fathom why I remain so melancholy, why I decline their invitations to social gatherings where eligible gentlemen might be encountered. How could I tell them that my heart already belongs to a man fifteen hundred miles distant, whose eyes hold the vastness of the Arizona sky?

I dream often of those precious months we shared—of our clandestine meetings by the Salt River, where you would recite passages from Mr. London’s novels whilst I mended your torn shirt sleeves, the desert sunset painting everything golden around us. Do you remember the evening when the monsoon rains came early, and we sheltered beneath that ancient mesquite tree? You spoke then of building a life together, of defying the conventions that would keep us apart simply because my surname carries the weight of Spanish heritage whilst yours bears the privilege of Anglo acceptance.

Oh, Fred, how I wish I possessed your courage, your unwavering belief that love might triumph over society’s prejudices! Yet I am a creature of contradictions—yearning for freedom whilst simultaneously fearing its consequences, desperate to return to you yet terrified of the scandal our union might bring to both our families.

Papa’s letters grow increasingly urgent. He has secured what he believes to be an advantageous match—Señor Vásquez’s eldest son, recently returned from his studies in Mexico City. A union that would, in Papa’s words, “preserve the integrity of our heritage whilst ensuring financial security.” The very thought fills me with such despair that I can scarce breathe.

Yet what alternative do I possess? To return to you would mean defying not only my family’s wishes but challenging the very social order that governs our territory. Would your love prove strong enough to weather the storms such defiance would surely bring? Could we build happiness upon a foundation of family estrangement and social ostracism?

These questions torment me through the long Chicago nights, when the city’s restless energy seems to echo the tumult within my own heart. I am but twenty-two years of age, yet I feel ancient beneath the weight of impossible choices.

Please, my darling Fred, if you can find it within your generous heart to forgive my weakness, write to me. Tell me of the desert blooms, of whether the roadrunners still race across the yard behind your father’s store, of anything that might transport me, however briefly, from this maze of brick and sorrow back to those sun-drenched days when love seemed conquerable of all obstacles.

I remain, despite my failings and the vast distance between us,

Forever and most devotedly yours,

Cora

P.S. I have enclosed a small piece of sheet music I found at Marshall Field’s – “Desert Dreams,” a waltz that reminded me so painfully of those evenings when you would hum melodies whilst we watched the stars emerge over the Sonoran landscape. Perhaps someday we might dance to it together beneath that endless Arizona sky.

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