Vox Meditantis

61 Washington Square South, New York
15th November, 1935

My Dearest William,

The autumn leaves outside my window have turned the colour of your eyes—that warm amber I remember from our single photograph, though I fear my memory may be painting them more golden than they truly are. It’s half past eleven in the evening, and the city hums its restless lullaby beneath my feet, yet I find myself questioning whether these words I’m about to spill onto paper will sound as foolish in Kentucky as they do echoing through my cramped studio.

I’ve begun this letter seventeen times, William. Seventeen crumpled attempts now rest in my wastebasket like failed prayers, each one abandoned when my usual confidence deserted me at the crucial moment. How strange that I, who can argue Roosevelt’s policies with seasoned journalists and challenge my editor’s assumptions without flinching, should find myself tongue-tied before a blank page meant for you.

Perhaps it’s because those other conversations don’t matter—not really. They’re intellectual exercises, verbal sparring matches where victory is measured in clever retorts and wounded pride. But this… this letter carries my heart across eight hundred miles, and the thought that it might arrive only to reveal how utterly ordinary I am beneath all my metropolitan bluster terrifies me more than I care to admit.

You see, darling William, I’ve been thinking about your last letter—the one where you described the way morning mist rises from your schoolyard, how it reminds you of spirits dancing between the worlds of sleep and waking. Your words painted such vivid pictures that I could almost smell the damp earth and hear the distant lowing of cattle. It made me realise how small my world truly is, despite living in this great sprawling city that never sleeps.

Here I am, surrounded by millions of souls, yet I spend my evenings alone, reading your letters by the inadequate light of my single lamp, whilst outside my window couples stroll arm in arm through Washington Square. Sometimes I watch them from behind my curtain—young women with their beaux, laughing at private jokes, sharing quiet moments on park benches. And I wonder, with an ache that surprises me with its intensity, what it would feel like to walk beside you down those tree-lined paths, to feel your steady presence anchoring my restless spirit to something real and lasting.

I know what my colleagues would say if they could peer into my heart just now. Alice Lewis, they’d whisper, the girl who swore she’d never be any man’s shadow, reduced to pining over a country schoolmaster she’s met precisely once. They’d see it as weakness, this tender vulnerability that your letters have awakened in me. But they don’t understand what I’ve discovered in our correspondence—that true strength isn’t found in solitary independence, but in having the courage to let another soul witness your deepest fears and still choose to love you.

And I am afraid, William. Terrified, if I’m being brutally honest. Not of you—never of you—but of this vast chasm between our worlds. I fear that my sophisticated city polish might seem brittle and artificial when set against the genuine warmth of your rural community. I worry that my opinions, which feel so vital and necessary here in Manhattan’s intellectual circles, might sound shrill and inappropriate echoing through your quiet Kentucky evenings.

Most of all, I’m frightened by how completely you’ve come to occupy my thoughts. When I read Mencken’s latest editorial, I find myself composing mental responses not for my editor, but for you. When I discover a new jazz club in Harlem, I imagine describing the music to you—how the trumpet’s cry seems to capture all the longing and hope of our modern age. Even my dreams have been colonised by visions of bluegrass hills I’ve never seen, of sitting beside you on your school steps while you explain the constellations that shine so much brighter in your unpolluted Kentucky sky.

Is this what love truly feels like, darling? This exquisite torture of finding someone who sees straight through to your authentic self, who challenges your assumptions while celebrating your fierce independence? Because if so, I understand now why poets have spent centuries trying to capture its essence in mere words—it’s like attempting to hold morning mist in your bare hands.

Your gentle strength has become my refuge, William. In your letters, I’ve discovered a sanctuary where my restless energy can finally settle, where my curious mind can explore ideas without fear of judgment. You don’t try to tame my spirit or dim my opinions—instead, you offer the rare gift of truly listening, of engaging with my thoughts as though they matter, as though I matter.

I dream sometimes of Kentucky mornings, of waking in your arms while frost patterns the windows and your students’ voices drift across the schoolyard. I imagine heated discussions over breakfast coffee, your quiet wisdom tempering my passionate arguments, my urban perspectives broadening your rural viewpoint. In these dreams, we’re neither the sophisticated city girl nor the country schoolmaster—we’re simply Alice and William, two souls who found in each other the missing pieces of themselves.

But then I wake to my Manhattan reality, and the distance between us feels insurmountable. Yet I choose hope over fear, tenderness over self-protection. Because you, my darling William, have shown me that love isn’t about erasing the differences between us—it’s about celebrating how beautifully those differences complement each other.

Forever yours, with all my imperfect, questioning, entirely devoted heart,

Alice

---

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