Vox Meditantis

March 15th, 1936
Richardson Ranch, Cheyenne, Wyoming

My Dearest Clara,

The lamp flickers beside me as I write these words, casting shadows that dance like memories across the rough-hewn walls of our kitchen. Outside, the March wind howls across the prairie with a voice that seems to echo the hollowness I carry within my chest—a vast, aching space that only your presence could fill. It is past midnight, and the world has surrendered to darkness, yet sleep eludes me as surely as happiness has since your last letter arrived a fortnight ago.

I find myself wondering if you can comprehend the peculiar quality of solitude that exists out here in this endless expanse of sage and sky. It is not merely the absence of human companionship, though God knows that weighs heavily enough upon a man’s soul. Rather, it is the way the landscape itself seems to amplify every unspoken longing, every whispered prayer that carries your name. The very immensity of this place—these rolling hills that stretch beyond the horizon like a sea frozen in time—serves as a constant reminder of the distance that separates us, measuring not merely in miles but in heartbeats, in breaths drawn without your laughter to sweeten them.

Today I rode out to inspect the northern pastures, where our cattle cluster like dark punctuation marks against the pale grass. The sun hung low and golden, casting shadows so sharp they seemed cut from black velvet, and I found myself imagining how your artist’s eye would capture such a scene. Would you see beauty in this harsh grandeur, or would it strike you as merely desolate? I confess, beloved, that increasingly I view this land through the lens of longing—wondering how it might appear to you, whether these sunsets I’ve grown to cherish might kindle the same wonder in your Southern heart.

The silence here possesses a weight all its own. Not the comfortable quiet of evening prayers or the peaceful hush of snowfall, but something more profound—a silence that speaks of spaces too vast for human voices to bridge. When I call to the cattle, my words seem swallowed whole by the prairie, absorbed into that endless blue dome overhead without echo or answer. How different it must be in your Charleston, where every street corner holds conversation, where the very architecture seems designed to draw people together rather than remind them of their smallness beneath an indifferent sky.

Your letters, when they arrive, transform this place entirely. Mrs. Callahan at the post office has come to recognise the look in my eyes on those blessed Wednesdays when your envelope awaits, and I suspect she finds some gentle amusement in watching this weathered rancher handle your correspondence as though it were spun from spider silk and moonlight. Indeed, that is precisely how precious it feels—each page a gossamer thread connecting my world to yours, each carefully formed word a bridge spanning the impossible gulf between our separate lives.

I read your latest letter until the paper grew soft with handling, memorising every turn of phrase, every playful barb you aimed at my “Western stoicism.” You tease me for my silences, my dear Clara, yet how can I explain that words spoken into this emptiness feel somehow insufficient? Here, amidst the eternal conversation between wind and grass, between hawk and prairie dog, I have learned that the most profound truths often require the kind of careful crafting that only solitude can provide. Perhaps that is why I find myself most eloquent in these midnight hours, when the ranch sleeps and I am alone with my thoughts of you.

The winter has been particularly harsh this year. We lost six head to the blizzard that swept through in February, and young Henry Collins from the neighbouring spread froze to death when his horse threw him during that terrible storm. Such tragedies remind me daily of life’s fragility, of how quickly the things we hold dear can be swept away by forces beyond our control. This awareness has sharpened my yearning for you until it has become a physical ache, a hollow in my chest that no amount of honest work can fill.

I dream of you here, Clara. I dream of your laughter warming these rooms that have known too much silence, of your curiosity transforming my solitary routines into shared adventures. I imagine teaching you to read the weather in the subtle shift of cloud formations, showing you how the cattle move before a storm, watching your face as you discover the hidden beauty in this harsh landscape that has become my prison and my cathedral both.

Sometimes I walk out onto the ridge behind the house, where the view stretches unbroken to the eastern horizon, and I fancy that if I could only see far enough, my gaze might somehow find you in your Charleston garden, might bridge this continental divide through sheer force of longing. The futility of such thoughts does nothing to diminish their power. You have become my fixed star, Clara, the bright point by which I navigate these dark months of separation.

Spring approaches with its promise of renewal, yet I find myself dreading the busy season ahead. Soon the ranch will demand every waking hour as we prepare for calving, mend winter’s damage, and plan for the year’s work. The physical exhaustion will be welcome—God knows I crave respite from these sleepless nights—yet I fear that immersion in necessity will somehow dull the sharp edge of my need for you, and I find myself reluctant to surrender even this sweet torment.

I close with Shelley’s words, though I fear they pale beside the truth of my feeling: “I arise from dreams of thee, and a spirit in my feet hath led me—who knows how?—to thy chamber-window, sweet!” Would that such spirits could indeed carry me to you, beloved. Until that blessed day when distance no longer defines our love, I remain,

Your devoted and eternally yearning,

Edward

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