Vox Meditantis

15th October, 1931
1623 North Cleveland Avenue
Chicago, Illinois

My Dearest Albert,

The autumn leaves outside my window have turned the colour of old pennies, and as they drift past in the grey October light, I find myself thinking of all the seasons that have passed since we began this tender correspondence. How strange it is that nature should paint such beauty whilst my heart feels so heavy with the weight of distance and uncertainty.

I write to you tonight from my small parlour, where the wireless plays softly in the corner—Rudy Vallée crooning some melancholy tune that seems to echo the ache in my chest. The lamplight casts long shadows across the room, and in those shadows, I see the ghost of all our unmet moments, all the conversations we might have shared over evening tea, all the quiet Sunday afternoons we shall never reclaim.

Forgive me, darling, for the sombre tone of this letter. I fear the melancholy that has settled over our nation has found its way into my very soul. Each day at Montgomery Ward, I witness the quiet desperation in our customers’ faces—mothers counting coins twice before purchasing necessary items for their children, men in threadbare suits attempting to maintain dignity whilst their world crumbles around them. The economic tempest that began two years ago shows no sign of abating, and I confess that it weighs heavily upon my thoughts of our future together.

Yesterday, I received word that three more girls in my department have been let go. Margaret, who sits beside me and speaks so fondly of her sweetheart in Milwaukee, gathered her few personal belongings with tears streaming down her cheeks. “At least you have your Albert,” she whispered to me as she departed, but oh, how hollow those words felt. Yes, I have you, my darling, but I have you only in letters, in photographs that grow creased from my constant handling, in dreams that fade too quickly with the dawn.

The distance between Chicago and Knoxville has never seemed so vast as it does now. When I walk along Lake Michigan’s shore, watching the grey waters stretch endlessly towards the horizon, I imagine that somewhere beyond that vastness lies your gentle smile, your thoughtful eyes, your hands that I have never held but know so well from your descriptions. Sometimes I fancy I can feel your presence in the wind off the lake, but it is only fancy, and the realisation leaves me more bereft than before.

I have been reading your letters again—all sixty-seven of them, tied with the blue ribbon you sent last Christmas. Each one is a treasure, yet tonight they feel like beautiful artifacts from a life I fear we may never truly share. Your words about the changing colours of the Tennessee hills, your observations about the bank customers who speak in hushed tones of their mounting debts, your gentle philosophising about the nature of hope in dark times—all of it paints such vivid pictures that I feel I know your world intimately, yet remain forever outside it.

Do you ever wonder, my dear Albert, if we are like characters in some tragic novel, destined to love deeply but from afar? I confess that such thoughts have been my unwelcome companions these past weeks. The romantic in me wants to believe that love conquers all obstacles, but the practical woman who counts inventory and balances ledgers sees the harsh reality of our situation. How can we plan a future when neither of us knows if we shall still possess employment come spring? How can we speak of marriage when the very ground beneath our feet feels so uncertain?

Mother has been particularly vocal about my “unrealistic attachment to a man I’ve never met properly.” Her words sting because they contain a kernel of truth that I dare not examine too closely. We know each other through words and photographs, through careful revelations and tender confessions, yet sometimes I wake in the night wondering if I am in love with a man or with the beautiful letters he writes. Would you recognise me if you passed me on State Street? Would the woman you have come to love through correspondence match the flesh-and-blood Mary who struggles with doubt and melancholy?

The clock on my mantelpiece chimes ten, and I realise I have been writing for nearly two hours. Time moves so strangely when I am composing letters to you—sometimes flying like a sparrow, sometimes crawling like winter frost across a windowpane. Tonight, it has crept along with the weight of my sadness, each minute stretching like the miles between us.

I must tell you about my dreams, Albert, for they have become both my solace and my torment. In them, we walk together through Lincoln Park on a spring morning, your arm linked through mine, speaking aloud all the words we have shared in silence. In these dreams, your voice has the same gentle cadence as your letters, and your laugh—oh, how I long to hear your laugh—rings out clear and joyous. But then I wake to grey October light and the distant sound of traffic on Lake Shore Drive, and the contrast between dream and reality leaves me gasping like a fish pulled from water.

Please do not think me faithless or weak for sharing these dark thoughts. My love for you remains as steady as the North Star, but even stars seem dimmed by clouds, and I find myself lost in the grey landscape of this troubled year. Perhaps it is the approaching winter, or perhaps it is simply the accumulated weight of all our deferred hopes, but I needed to share this burden with the one person who might understand.

Write to me soon, my darling. Tell me of your autumn evenings, of the books you are reading, of the small moments that bring you joy despite our circumstances. Help me remember that love, even conducted through letters across vast distances, remains the most real and precious thing in this uncertain world.

Forever yours, through sunshine and shadow,

Mary

P.S. I tuck into this letter a small sketch of the Knoxville hills at sunset—a fragment of my Tennessee autumn to keep until we can watch such skies together.

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