Vox Meditantis

1342 S. Soto Street
Boyle Heights
Los Angeles, California

15th October, 1930

My Dearest Sarah,

I find myself seated at my small writing desk as the autumn evening settles over the city, the distant hum of motor cars mingling with the faint strains of jazz drifting from the apartment below. The electric lamp casts its harsh circle of light upon this page, and I confess that the words I might ordinarily pen with such fervor seem to elude me tonight. Perhaps it is the peculiar melancholy that has settled upon me these past weeks, or perhaps it is something more troubling—a growing sense that we are becoming strangers to one another despite the tender declarations that fill our correspondence.

Your last letter arrived on Tuesday, bearing the familiar scent of lavender and the careful script I have come to treasure. Yet as I read your measured words about the changing leaves in Spokane and your observations regarding the latest court proceedings, I felt a curious distance creeping between the lines. You write of intellectual pursuits and social gatherings with the women’s club, of quiet evenings by the hearth with your parents, and whilst I cherish these glimpses into your daily existence, I cannot help but wonder if we are merely exchanging pleasant nothings whilst the substantial matters of our hearts remain unspoken.

The truth, my dear Sarah, is that I am struggling. Not merely with the financial uncertainties that plague every working man in these troubled times, though God knows those pressures weigh heavily upon my shoulders. The aircraft parts factory has reduced our hours yet again, and I find myself stretched thin between the demands of survival and the dreams that once seemed so attainable. But it is not poverty that concerns me most—it is this growing chasm between the life I imagined we might build together and the reality of our present circumstances.

I recall with painful clarity the boldness with which we first began this correspondence, the way your letters arrived like small revelations, each one revealing new depths to your character that made me fall more deeply in love. Your playful teasing drew laughter from me even during the darkest days, and your intellectual observations challenged me to think beyond the confines of my working-class upbringing. I believed then that distance was merely a temporary obstacle, something we could overcome through the sheer force of our devotion.

Yet here we are, months into this endeavour, and I find myself questioning whether we truly know one another at all. When I write to you of my adventures exploring the rooftops of downtown Los Angeles, seeking those vistas that might transport me beyond the mundane concerns of daily existence, do you truly understand the desperation that drives such escapades? When I describe the jazz clubs of Central Avenue or the camaraderie I share with my fellow machinists, can you appreciate the loneliness that pursues me even in the midst of laughter and music?

I suspect that my letters paint a picture of romantic adventure that sits rather conveniently with your gentle sensibilities, whilst your responses offer me a portrait of refined domesticity that satisfies my own fantasies of stability and respectability. But what lies beneath these carefully constructed narratives? What of the nights when sleep eludes me, when I pace the narrow confines of my lodgings in Boyle Heights, wondering if you can ever truly love a man whose hands bear the permanent stains of engine grease, whose aspirations extend beyond his station but may never reach fruition?

Your recent mention of the young attorney who has joined your courthouse—that Harvard-educated gentleman whose family owns substantial timber interests—did not escape my notice, though you offered it merely as an observation about changing legal practices. I am not so naive as to overlook the implications of such casual references, Sarah. A man of his breeding and prospects could offer you the security and social position that I, in my current circumstances, cannot provide. Perhaps this accounts for the increasingly formal tone of your correspondence, the way our once-intimate exchanges have evolved into something resembling the polite discourse one might maintain with a distant acquaintance.

I do not write these words to accuse you of fickleness, for I understand the practical considerations that must weigh upon any sensible woman’s mind. The Depression has taught us all harsh lessons about the fragility of dreams unsupported by concrete foundations. Yet I cannot pretend that this realisation does not wound me, nor that it has not contributed to the sense of detachment that colours my perception of our relationship.

The curious irony is that I love you still—perhaps more deeply than ever, now that I sense the possibility of losing you. Your letters continue to arrive like small treasures, and I continue to cherish every carefully chosen word, every subtle indication of your thoughts and feelings. Yet I find myself analysing these communications with the desperate intensity of a man deciphering code, searching for evidence of your true sentiments whilst simultaneously fearing what I might discover.

I write this not to burden you with my anxieties, but because I believe we have reached a crossroads in our correspondence that demands honesty rather than pleasant evasion. If we are to continue this relationship, we must do so with full knowledge of what it entails—the sacrifices, the uncertainties, the possibility that our dreams may not align with our circumstances. If, however, you have come to realise that your affections lie elsewhere, I would prefer to know this directly rather than endure the slow erosion of hope.

I remain, as always, your devoted though troubled correspondent.

John

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