Vox Meditantis

15th November, 1917
Los Angeles, California

My Dearest William,

I pen these words with trembling fingers, the autumn wind rattling the windows of our little boarding house as I sit by candlelight, for the electricity has been unreliable of late. The distant rumble of the Pacific seems to echo the turmoil within my heart, and I find myself reaching for you across the vast expanse that separates California from your beloved Wisconsin.

It has been three months since your last letter arrived, and I confess that fear has become my constant companion. Each morning I wake with the dread that perhaps the war has claimed you, that you have enlisted despite your promise to wait. The newspapers speak of nothing but casualty lists and the terrible machinery of death that grinds on in the trenches of France. Mrs. Delaney’s boy never returned from the Somme, and I see the hollow grief in her eyes each time we pass in the corridor.

But my fear extends beyond the spectre of war, my darling. I am afraid that my words—those harsh, unforgiving words I spoke when you departed—have poisoned the well of your affection. I was so very frightened when you spoke of leaving California, of abandoning the life we had begun to build together amongst the orange groves and endless sunshine. The thought of you returning to that cold, unfamiliar land filled me with a terror I could not name, and in my weakness, I lashed out like a wounded animal.

How could you leave me here, I had cried, amongst strangers, whilst you return to the comfort of your family? The memory of your face—so wounded, so utterly bewildered by my fury—haunts my dreams. You had spoken only of necessity, of your mother’s failing health and your father’s struggling business. You had promised to send for me, to make me your wife before God and your family, yet I heard only abandonment in your words.

I have spent these months in agonising reflection, watching the Mexican families in our neighbourhood maintain their bonds across impossible distances, their love strengthened rather than weakened by separation. Old Señora Martinez speaks often of her husband, who crossed the border during the worst of the fighting down south, and the devotion in her voice when she reads his letters aloud makes my heart ache with recognition of what I nearly cast away.

Forgive me, my dearest William. Forgive a foolish woman who allowed fear to poison her tongue and pride to harden her heart. I understand now that love is not possession, that it cannot be caged like a songbird without destroying its very essence. You did not abandon me—you simply chose the path of duty and honour, as any good man must in these troubled times.

The world has grown so uncertain, so full of shadow and sorrow. President Wilson speaks of making the world safe for democracy, but I wonder if we can ever truly be safe when love itself seems so fragile, so easily broken by misunderstanding and stubborn pride. Each day brings news of fresh horrors—the terrible push at Passchendaele, the mounting casualties, the growing shortages that remind us all how quickly civilisation can crumble.

Yet in this darkness, I have found a strange sort of courage. If the world is indeed changing, if the old certainties are crumbling beneath the weight of modern warfare, then perhaps we too must be brave enough to forge something new. I am no longer the sheltered girl who feared the unknown territories of your Wisconsin winters. I have found work at the munitions factory, alongside women of every nationality and station. My hands, once soft from the privileged life Papa provided, now bear the calluses of honest labour.

I write to you now not as a supplicant begging forgiveness, but as a woman who has learned the value of both love and independence. If you can find it in your heart to forgive my cruel words, if the ember of your affection still glows beneath the ashes of my foolish pride, then I propose we begin anew. Not as children playing at romance, but as two souls who have looked into the abyss of separation and chosen to reach for each other across the void.

The war has taught us all that tomorrow is never promised, that love deferred may be love lost forever. If you still harbour any tenderness for me, if you can forgive a woman who spoke from fear rather than faith, then write to me, my darling. Tell me of your Wisconsin winters, of your family, of the life you envision for us together. I am ready now to listen with an open heart, to trust in a future that once seemed as distant as the stars.

I remain, through all storms and seasons, your devoted and repentant

Clara

P.S. I have begun learning to play the small piano in Mrs. Delaney’s parlour, and yesterday I managed to play through “After the Ball” without a single mistake. The melody reminded me of that evening last spring when we danced to the gramophone in Papa’s drawing room, and for a moment, I could almost feel your hand upon my waist again. Music, it seems, holds memories more faithfully than even the most devoted heart. Perhaps when you return, we might make new melodies together, ones that speak of forgiveness rather than farewell.

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