Vox Meditantis

15th October, 1918
Bridgeport, Connecticut

My Dearest Laura,

How my heart leaps each morning when I wake, knowing that with each passing day, this dreadful war draws closer to its end, and I shall be nearer to seeing your beloved face once more! The newspapers speak of German retreats and armistice talks, and though I dare not hope too fervently lest I be disappointed, there is such a lightness in my step these days that even the other girls at the factory have remarked upon it.

You would scarce recognise me now, my darling companion, dressed as I am in my working overalls with my hair pinned back beneath a kerchief like any common labourer. Yet there is such dignity in this work, such purpose! Each shell casing I inspect, each fuse I handle with care, brings us closer to victory and to peace. The supervisor, Mrs Brewster, has commended my diligence, and I confess to a pride I never felt when confined to parlour embroidery and social calls. How strange it is to discover that one’s hands, which you once praised for their gentleness, might also serve the cause of freedom with such capability!

The boarding house where I lodge is filled with women much like myself—some seeking adventure, others driven by necessity, all of us bound together by this extraordinary time. We share our evening meals and read aloud from letters and newspapers, and sometimes, when the matron retires early, we even dare to dance to the gramophone in the common room. Last Saturday, a girl named Dorothy taught us the latest steps from New York, and for a brief, glorious hour, I felt as though the world had transformed into something altogether more hopeful and bright.

Yet, oh Laura, how the evenings stretch long and empty when the laughter fades! I find myself at my small window, gazing southward toward Georgia, and my heart grows heavy with such longing. I picture you in your father’s house, perhaps reading by lamplight in that dear window seat where we spent so many precious hours before I departed. Do you still take your morning walk through the garden we planned together? Do the jasmine and sweet olive still bloom as we imagined they would? Sometimes I fancy I can smell their fragrance on the evening breeze, though I know it cannot be so.

The other night, I dreamt we were walking again through Savannah’s squares, your hand resting so naturally upon my arm, and we spoke of books and music and all the beautiful things that make life worth living. When I woke, the disappointment was so acute that I wept into my pillow, and it was some time before I could compose myself sufficiently to face the day. Mrs Henley, who shares my room, attributes my occasional melancholy to homesickness, and I allow her this interpretation, for how could she understand the true nature of my yearning?

I have been reading Keats again—do you remember how we discovered “Bright Star” together that afternoon in your father’s library? The lines come to me now with such poignancy: “Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast, To feel for ever its soft fall and swell.” How I long for such constancy, such unchanging devotion! Though we are separated by hundreds of miles and the demands of duty, I feel you with me always, as surely as if you were here beside me.

Please, my dearest friend, write to me soon and tell me of your days. Are you continuing with your French lessons? Has your father’s cough improved? I hunger for even the smallest details of your life, for they are like bright threads that connect my heart to home. The postal service has become somewhat unreliable of late—the Spanish influenza has claimed several postal workers, and mail is often delayed—but your letters are worth any wait.

I have been setting aside a portion of my wages each week, and I dare to hope that when this war ends and I return to Georgia, we might consider that cottage we once spoke of so wistfully. How wonderful it would be to have our own small sanctuary, where we might tend a garden together and fill our days with quiet contentment! I picture us reading aloud to one another in the evenings, sharing our thoughts and dreams without fear of interruption or misunderstanding.

Until that blessed day arrives, I remain, with all the love and devotion that one soul may hold for another,

Your most faithful and affectionate friend,

Minnie

P.S. I have been carrying the small volume of Whitman’s verses you gave me before my departure. The pages have grown soft from handling, and I fancy they now hold something of both our spirits within them. “I celebrate myself, and sing myself”—how prophetic those words seem now.

---

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