Vox Meditantis

Corporal Robert Nelson
Communications Officer
Signal Corps Unit 47
APO 512, c/o Postmaster
New York, New York

15th October 1942

My Dearest Martha,

I find myself writing to you in the peculiar hush that settles over the barracks after evening mess, when the usual cacophony of voices and wireless static fades into something approaching tranquillity. There’s a quality to this hour that reminds me of those twilight moments we shared by Forsyth Park, when the Spanish moss would catch the last golden threads of daylight and you would challenge some assertion I’d made about Wordsworth or democracy, your eyes bright with that irrepressible curiosity that first captured my heart.

Tonight, that same gentle quietude wraps around me like a familiar shawl, yet it carries with it the weight of distance—not merely the hundreds of miles that separate Georgia from your beloved Maine coast, but something more ineffable. Perhaps it’s the way time seems to stretch when one is removed from the immediate pulse of life, creating space for reflection that feels both blessing and burden.

I’ve been contemplating your last letter, particularly your vivid description of the autumn colours along the Kennebec River and how they reminded you of “nature’s own defiant celebration before winter’s surrender.” Your words painted such a striking picture that I could almost smell the salt air mixing with woodsmoke, almost hear the rhythmic hammering from the shipyard that provides the percussion to your daily symphony. How beautifully you capture the essence of your world, my darling—with that characteristic blend of poetry and practicality that never fails to astound me.

This distance between us has afforded me an unexpected gift: the luxury of loving you without the immediate demands of presence. In the stillness of separation, I find myself able to appreciate the architecture of our affection with something approaching scholarly detachment. Like studying a masterpiece in a gallery, I can step back and marvel at the intricate ways our minds and hearts have learned to dance together. Your fierce opinions and relentless questioning have become the whetstone against which my own thoughts find their edge, whilst I hope my more contemplative nature provides some harbour for your restless intellectual energy.

I think often of our correspondence as a kind of courtship of minds—perhaps the purest form of romance available to us in these fractured times. In your letters, you reveal thoughts and observations that might never surface in the immediate give-and-take of conversation. There’s something profoundly intimate about the way you’ve allowed me to witness your internal landscape through these written exchanges, sharing not just events but the very texture of your thinking.

Keats wrote that “a thing of beauty is a joy forever,” and whilst he spoke of aesthetic pleasure, I find the sentiment applies equally to the beauty of intellectual companionship. Our exchanges possess that quality of enduring loveliness—each letter a small work of art that I can revisit, finding new facets of meaning with each reading. Your passionate defence of women’s expanded roles in the workforce, for instance, continues to resonate through my thoughts weeks after reading it, challenging assumptions I didn’t even realise I held.

This peaceful remove has also granted me perspective on the profound privilege of being chosen by someone like you—someone who could easily command the attention of any number of admirers, yet has somehow decided that my particular brand of thoughtful devotion holds sufficient charm. In moments of quiet honesty, I marvel at the cosmic coincidence that brought together a reserved Southern literature enthusiast and a firebrand Maine welder, creating something that transcends both our individual natures.

I close with the promise that whilst distance may separate our bodies, it has only served to clarify the remarkable proximity of our souls.

With all my love and deepest admiration,

Robert

P.S. I’ve copied out a brief passage from Thoreau’s journal that reminded me of our conversations about finding beauty in unexpected places—perhaps his words might serve as a small bridge across the miles between us, carrying with them my hope that we shall soon share such discoveries together once more.

“Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads. The morning wind forever blows, the poem of creation is uninterrupted; but few are the ears that hear it. There is nothing inorganic… The earth is not a mere fragment of dead history, but living poetry like the leaves of a tree, which precede flowers and fruit—not a fossil earth, but a living earth.”

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