Vox Meditantis

2247 North Halsted Street, Chicago, Illinois

15th November, 1953

My dearest George,

I’ve started this letter a dozen times, each attempt finding its way to the wastepaper basket beside my desk. The words feel clumsy tonight, inadequate for the tangle of thoughts that’s been keeping me awake these past weeks. Perhaps it’s the grey November weather that’s got me feeling so unsettled, or perhaps it’s something deeper – something I’ve been trying not to examine too closely.

Your last letter sits before me now, creased from countless readings. You write so beautifully about the books you’ve been discovering at the library, about the conversations you’ve had with the fellows at the mill regarding labour organisation and workers’ rights. I can picture you there amongst the stacks, that serious expression you get when you’re wrestling with a particularly challenging idea. It’s one of the things I treasure most about you, George – the way your mind reaches for understanding, never satisfied with simple answers.

But tonight, as I sit in my little room above Mrs Schmidt’s boarding house, I find myself wondering if perhaps we’re both reaching for something that exists only in the pages of the novels I borrow from the library. The romantic in me wants to believe that love can conquer the practical realities that seem to multiply each time I truly consider our situation. Yet the part of me that’s learnt to be cautious – the part shaped by watching my mother work her fingers raw whilst my father chased dreams that never quite materialised – that part whispers warnings I’m finding harder to ignore.

Today, whilst serving coffee to the insurance executives and their secretaries, I overheard a conversation that’s left me rather shaken. Two women, not much older than myself, were discussing a mutual acquaintance who’d “thrown herself away” on a factory worker from Detroit. The casual cruelty in their voices, the assumption that such a choice could only be explained by temporary madness or moral failing – it struck me with unexpected force. I’ve never considered myself particularly sensitive to such opinions, but hearing our situation reflected in their dismissive laughter made something cold settle in my chest.

I know you’d tell me not to let such small-minded people influence how we see ourselves, and you’d be right, as you usually are. But George, darling, I fear it’s not just their opinions that trouble me. It’s the growing awareness of how different our worlds truly are, despite the bridge our letters have built between Cleveland and Chicago.

When you write about the political discussions at the mill, about your dreams of perhaps attending night classes to study history properly, I feel such admiration for your courage and determination. Yet I also feel the weight of my own limitations pressing upon me. What do I contribute to these conversations beyond questions and encouragement? What dreams of my own am I pursuing with equal dedication? I serve meals to people whose education and opportunities I’ll never share, and whilst I find beauty and meaning in small moments – the way steam rises from fresh coffee, the satisfaction of a kind word offered to a harried businessman – I wonder sometimes if I’m simply making peace with a life too small for the connection we’ve discovered together.

Your letters paint such vivid pictures of the books you’re reading, the ideas that excite you, the vision you have of a better world where working people might claim dignity and respect. I treasure every word, yet I find myself wondering where I fit into such ambitions. In 1953, when a woman’s highest calling is supposed to be creating a comfortable home for her husband and children, what does it mean that I sometimes lie awake at night dreaming not of wedding gowns and nurseries, but of distant cities and conversations with strangers whose stories might teach me something new about the world?

Perhaps I’m being foolish, George. Perhaps these doubts are simply the product of too much solitude and November’s grey skies. But I needed to share them with you, needed to trust that you’d understand both my love and my uncertainty. We’ve always been honest with each other in our letters – it’s part of what makes this connection so precious – and I couldn’t bear to let politeness or fear of disappointing you keep me from admitting that I’m frightened. Frightened of wanting too much, of settling for too little, of making choices that might diminish us both.

Please write soon. I need your thoughts, your gentle wisdom, your way of helping me see possibilities I might otherwise miss.

All my love, despite everything,

Laura

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