Dearest @Aladeen,
I hope this letter greets you well. I have received yours dated the 18th of February, and I am beginning to write after my second reading of it, sipping on a drink of tea, slouched forward comfortably in my study. It is about 7:30 in the evening as I write, and the frosted glass of my window wears now a dark tint, the area outside growing dimmer as the sun reclines behind the smoke and skyscrapers, setting a somber mood to an event of much joy: reading words of yours again, finally. How long, my eternal darling, has it been since I last saw you, when you were running down the platform and the whistles of the train drowned our utterances from the world and each other? We made gestures instead. You smiled, but I saw your tears, and they stung me. Did I truly abandon you? I am sorry; I am sorry.
New York is a place of more wonder than even the cinemas told us; I find, every day, something to awe over, something to fawn about... and there's opportunity and oh-so-much of it. I wanted to become an actress; you know I did. And I tried, failing. And so I'm a journalist today, writing articles about film and entertainment for the newspapers. I much want to do the politics, but they hold my womanhood against me--they still don't recognize that I can think. I wish all men had your politics. If they did, I would have my voice. I still march forward and continue to fight for the equality prescribed by our feminist leaders, doing my part, in my own small way. One day--and you know I'm a dreamer--one day I hope to have my own newsprint. We'll see if it does become.
I have kept in touch with Dorothy, writing her frequently these past several years. She's doing well and has found partnership with--if you remember him--Ernest Vandermoore, the one who's the second son of that nasty man who ran the mill, the same one who wouldn't hire you out of prejudice. But Ernest is nice, not like his patrilineage. I always believed the holy word not to hold a parent's sin against their child, and I know you do, too. Treat Ernest well if ever you do meet him.
Sometimes I miss the farm, and I miss the people even more. But my life now is beyond what I could have dreamed up falling asleep in the hay-bales as I so often did when I was young and when I was with you.
Do write more; we've only touched the top of what we have to tell one another.
Yours,
Agnes