Vox Meditantis

412 South Morgan Street, Bridgeport, Chicago, Illinois
15th November, 1934

My Dearest Margaret,

The autumn winds have turned sharp here in Chicago, cutting through the canyon of buildings with a precision that would make my finest railway tools envious. I write to you from my boarding house room, the radiator clanking its familiar rhythm whilst the elevated train carries its nightly cargo of weary souls past my window. There is something oddly comforting about these industrial lullabies, though I suspect you might find them jarring compared to the gentle chorus of crickets that serenade your evening hours in Arkansas.

Your last letter arrived three days ago, and I confess I have read it no fewer than a dozen times. Your description of the changing maple leaves along the schoolhouse path painted such vivid pictures that I could almost smell the woodsmoke from your neighbour’s chimney. You have a poet’s soul, my dear Margaret, wrapped in the practical wisdom of a teacher. It is a combination that continues to both enchant and mystify me, though I wonder sometimes if I am deserving of such literary gifts.

Work at the railroad has been particularly demanding these past weeks. The company has assigned me to a special project—I cannot elaborate on the details, as railway business often requires a certain discretion—but it has taken me away from Chicago more frequently than I care to admit. These journeys, whilst professionally stimulating, leave me feeling curiously displaced, as if I am observing my own life from the window of a moving train. Perhaps it is the nature of constant motion that creates this sense of detachment, or perhaps it is something else entirely.

I have been thinking considerably about the nature of distance lately. Not merely the geographical expanse that separates Chicago from Pine Bluff, but the more subtle distances that exist between two people, even those who share the most intimate correspondence. There are thoughts, Margaret, that I find myself unable to commit to paper—not from lack of trust in you, but from a peculiar inability to translate certain experiences into words that would not alarm or burden you unnecessarily.

The other evening, whilst inspecting a locomotive in the yards, I encountered a fellow who claimed to know Arkansas well. He spoke of the cotton mills and the river towns with the casual familiarity of someone who had spent considerable time in your region. His descriptions were accurate enough to suggest genuine experience, yet something in his manner made me uncomfortably aware of how little I truly understand about your world. He mentioned changes coming to the South, industrial developments that might affect places like Pine Bluff, but spoke in the vague terms that men use when they know more than they are willing to reveal.

This conversation has haunted me, Margaret, in ways I struggle to articulate. It reminded me that for all our correspondence, for all the intimacy of our written words, there remain vast territories of experience that we cannot share across these miles. I know the texture of your handwriting better than the sound of your laugh. I can picture the precise angle of your head when you read by lamplight, yet I have never witnessed your expression when you are troubled or uncertain.

Do not mistake this for a diminishment of what we share, my dearest. Rather, it is an acknowledgement of the peculiar nature of our courtship. We are building something beautiful and substantial upon a foundation of words and imagination, yet I find myself increasingly aware of what must remain unspoken. There are aspects of my work, of my life here in Chicago, that seem to belong to a different world entirely—one that would feel foreign and perhaps unwelcome in the gentle atmosphere of your letters.

I received word yesterday that my supervisor wishes to discuss my future with the company. The conversation is scheduled for next week, and whilst I cannot predict its outcome, I suspect it may involve decisions that could affect not only my career but the very foundations of the life I am attempting to build. I mention this not to worry you, but because I find myself in the peculiar position of making choices about a future that increasingly feels intertwined with yours, yet which I must navigate largely alone.

The irony does not escape me that a man whose profession involves connecting distant places should feel so acutely the challenge of bridging the gap between two hearts. Perhaps it is precisely because I understand the mechanics of connection—the precise engineering required to span rivers and mountains—that I am so conscious of what remains unbridged between us.

Your recent questions about my family in Pennsylvania have been particularly difficult to answer with the honesty you deserve. There are complications there, Margaret, relationships that have been strained by choices I made in coming to Chicago. My father’s disapproval of my departure from the family farm created wounds that have not healed, and my mother’s letters have become increasingly infrequent. These are shadows that I prefer not to cast across the brightness of our correspondence, yet they shape my days in ways that feel dishonest to conceal entirely.

As I conclude this letter, the late hour and the whiskey I have been nursing create a melancholy that may be colouring my words more darkly than I intend. Please do not interpret my contemplative mood as a lessening of my affection for you. Indeed, it is quite the opposite. The very depth of my feelings compels me to examine the foundations upon which we are building our connection, to ensure they are strong enough to support the weight of genuine love.

I remain, as always, your devoted correspondent, though perhaps a more complicated one than either of us initially anticipated.

With deepest affection and unspoken devotions,

Fred

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