Vox Meditantis

427 East Washington Street, Indianapolis, Indiana

My Dearest Alice,

The autumn leaves are falling heavy outside the boarding house window tonight, and I find myself thinking of you with that particular ache that settles in my chest when the seasons change. There’s something about the way October strips the world bare that makes a man feel the distance between Indianapolis and Richmond more keenly. I’ve been staring at this blank paper for near an hour now, my pen hovering like it’s afraid to commit these feelings to ink, but I reckon some truths need telling, even when they hurt to write.

I trust you’ll forgive the melancholy in my words tonight, darling. It’s been three weeks since your last letter arrived, and whilst I know the postal service isn’t what it used to be, and that your evening classes keep you busy, the silence has been weighing on me something fierce. I find myself checking the mailbox twice daily, hoping against hope that today might bring your familiar handwriting and that sweet scent of lavender that always clings to your letters. Mrs. Crankshaw, my landlady, caught me lingering by the front steps yesterday evening and gave me such a knowing look that I felt heat creep up my neck like a schoolboy caught daydreaming.

The assembly line has been running longer shifts lately – Ford’s pushing to meet the holiday demand – and these twelve-hour days leave my hands so stiff I can barely hold a pen properly by evening. But even with these calloused fingers cramping around this fountain pen, I need to tell you what’s been heavy on my heart. There are nights when I lie awake listening to the other fellows snoring in the boarding house, and I wonder if I’m being foolish to believe that a girl as brilliant and beautiful as you could truly see a future with a man like me.

You see, Alice, I watch the way the supervisors talk to the college boys who come through for their summer positions, the respect in their voices, the assumption of intelligence, and I can’t help but wonder if I’m holding you back from something grander. Your letters are filled with such bright ideas from your literature classes, such thoughtful observations about the world beyond these factory walls, and sometimes I feel like I’m trying to catch starlight with these rough hands of mine.

But then I remember the way you write about our conversations, how you tell me my questions make you think differently about things, how my letters have become the bright spot in your week. And I choose to trust in that, Alice. I choose to trust in the way you describe feeling understood when you share your dreams with me, how you say my steadiness gives you courage to question those social conventions that box women in. I trust in the certainty I hear in your voice when you write about us building something real together, something that transcends the boundaries others might see.

I’ve been reading Steinbeck’s “The Grapes of Wrath” from the library – your recommendation, of course – and there’s a passage that’s been haunting me. Steinbeck writes about how people need something to trust in when everything else feels uncertain. That’s what you’ve become for me, darling. In a world where assembly lines can shut down overnight and men like me feel expendable, you’ve given me something solid to believe in.

I trust that when you don’t write for weeks, it’s because life has swept you up in its current, not because your feelings have changed. I trust that when you question whether we’re rushing things, it’s your careful mind protecting what we’re building, not doubt in its foundation. Most of all, I trust that someday – perhaps sooner than we dare hope – this distance between us will be nothing more than a memory, and we’ll build a life together that honours both your dreams and mine.

I’ve been watching the golden light filter through the factory windows each evening this week, and it reminds me of your hair catching sunlight that day we walked through Monument Park. That memory has become a treasure I carry with me through these long shifts, a bright spot that makes even the most difficult days bearable. Keep close to your heart the knowledge that even when my letters arrive late and my words feel clumsy, my devotion remains constant as the rhythm of these machines I tend.

Until I can hold you again, I remain,

Your devoted,
Frank

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