Vox Meditantis

518 North 6th Street, Allentown, Pennsylvania

October 15th, 1948

My Dearest Thomas,

I’ve started this letter countless times, crumpling each attempt into the wastepaper basket beside my writing desk until Mrs. Kowalski downstairs must think I’ve taken up origami instead of correspondence. The words feel clumsy in my pen tonight, like trying to catch moonbeams in a Mason jar – which, knowing me, I’d probably attempt if I thought it might bring you closer.

I received your letter about the early snowfall at Fort Richardson, how it transforms the mountains into something you described as “cathedrals of ice and silence.” Your words painted such vivid pictures that I found myself staring out at Pennsylvania’s autumn maples, trying to imagine what twenty degrees below zero might feel like. But tonight, Thomas, I confess I’m feeling that cold right here in my bones, and it has nothing to do with the weather.

Yesterday, we lost Mr. Hendricks. You remember me writing about him – the elderly gentleman who came in every Tuesday for black coffee and apple pie, always asking about “that young soldier fellow up in Alaska.” He’d been coming to Murphy’s since before I was born, according to Martha, and yesterday morning his usual booth stayed empty. Heart gave out in his sleep, they said. Quick and peaceful, which should be a comfort, but it isn’t, somehow.

Standing at his funeral this afternoon, watching Mrs. Hendricks clutch a handkerchief that looked far too small for such enormous grief, I couldn’t stop thinking about us. About this impossible distance between Pennsylvania and Alaska. About how quickly someone can simply… disappear from your life. About how I’m loving you with every fibre of my being whilst you’re so far away that if something happened to either of us, the other might not know for weeks.

Is this what love is supposed to feel like, Thomas? This constant ache of missing someone so desperately that ordinary moments – like wiping down the lunch counter or counting coins into my Adventure Fund – become almost unbearable? Sometimes I catch myself saving up tiny observations to share with you: how the autumn light slants through Murphy’s windows at exactly three o’clock, or the way Mrs. Hensley’s new baby makes this perfect little snuffling sound when he sleeps in his pram whilst she has her coffee. But then I remember you won’t hear these stories for days, maybe weeks, and suddenly they feel insignificant, like trying to describe a symphony to someone who’s never heard music.

I know I shouldn’t burden you with these fears, especially when you’re dealing with Alaska’s harsh conditions and military responsibilities. You have enough on your shoulders without your foolish sweetheart falling apart over an old man’s passing. But I can’t shake this terrible insecurity that’s been growing like frost on a windowpane. What if I’m not enough for you, Thomas? What if this cheerful diner waitress with her Mason jar dreams and poetry scribbled on order pads can’t possibly compete with Alaska’s magnificent wilderness and your fascinating books about philosophy and human nature?

You write so beautifully about aurora borealis dancing across the sky, about tracking bears through pristine snow, about conversations with fellow soldiers who trust you with their deepest thoughts. Your world sounds so vast and important, whilst mine feels suddenly small and ordinary. Sometimes I wonder if you’ll return from Alaska transformed by all those adventures and find me exactly where you left me – behind Murphy’s counter, dreaming of places I’ve never seen, collecting postcards from adventures I’ll never have.

I’m sorry, darling. I know this letter isn’t like my usual cheerful ramblings about diner gossip and small-town happenings. But Mr. Hendricks’ death has left me feeling fragile, like bone china cups we save for special occasions because they might shatter if handled carelessly. I keep thinking about how precious and breakable this love between us truly is, stretched across thousands of miles of mountain ranges and time zones and uncertainty.

Please write soon, Thomas. Tell me about the books you’re reading, about the northern lights, about anything that will remind me why this impossible love of ours is worth all this aching. Tell me we’re strong enough to survive this distance, that when you come home you’ll still want this curious, romantic, perhaps overly sentimental girl who loves you more than she ever imagined possible.

Until the mountains bring you back to me,

All my love,
Cora

P.S. I’ve tucked a photograph of Murphy’s Diner into this envelope – the one Martha took last spring when the morning light was hitting the windows just right. Perhaps it will remind you that there’s a little corner of Pennsylvania where someone thinks of you every single day, waiting for your return.

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