I pray this letter finds you well, I hope that you have opened it, this time, and further allow myself to dream that you are reading it. Yes, I still walk beside the silver ribbons of commerce and transportation. No, I won't be home for this year's St. Valentine's Day. Yes, I wish I could be. I mean to be there, but not until I can tell you that I am once more gainfully-employed. I promise you that I am trying.
If you are still reading this, I can hear you as you make that little "tut-tut" sound and say - aloud, to the cat - "Hoboes never keep their promises." Angel of my heart, know this: Sometimes, they do. I have faltered, these past four years, and allowed destitution, sickness and despair to rule my world. But Sweetness, it cannot be said that I'm not trying to mend my broken life.
Lest you forget, there have been other times you've bandied that word about - never. "I'll never find a soul mate, for there is no such thing as one perfect mate for any soul," you said. "No one finds a perfect match." With my help, you later admitted that yes, sometimes, they do.
I remember your friends (and mine), back in '26, telling you not to wait for me. Do you recall what they said, O Light of My Heart? "A man will never ever marry his mistress," they said. Well, while I must admit that that is generally true, sometimes, they do.
Then they said that a love such as ours wouldn't last a week. It did. Some gave us a year. My mother, bless her soul, gave us two. "Such marriages don't last," we were told. Well, sometimes, they do.
My friends along the tracks have told me that a woman like you has surely declared her husband dead, or had the marriage annulled, and long-since remarried by now. I should accept that my "walk around the block for a breath of fresh air," now nearly four years long, was the end of us. Beautiful, smart, strong women such as yourself never take back their wayward men. As I type this letter (don't ask what I had to do in order to borrow a typewriter), I can only pray that sometimes, they do.
You see, my angel, my dawn, my light, while I won't be home in time for St. Valentine's, I estimate that I will be there by the sixteenth. I'll understand if you have gone, or refuse to see me, but I promised you I would find my way back to you. I know they say that "Hoboes never keep their promises," and I have no doubt that it's true.
But sometimes, they do.
With all of my heart,
P.S. - It's Reginald, if you had failed to surmise. Gallant is my hobo name.
|Not exactly Depression-era wardrobe, but she's always been fashion-forward.|
-- for [Maris]