I saw a girl on the street today who wore her hair like yours. For the briefest moment I thought you had come back. But when she turned to look at me I hated her. I am reduced to this—for all its artists and writers and women of culture, Paris is nothing to me but a place full of people who are not Sophia.
How did I live without you for twenty long years and only with you for three? I wake up full of bitterness that another day has come and still Sophia is gone. I do not know how I put one foot before the other through each long day. I barely remember what I do from hour to hour. I only mark time slowly passing until night will come and I can fall asleep and dream of my lost girl.
I cannot stay here anymore, Sophia. I know you have forbidden me to write, but I have already done it. Now I find I must risk displeasing you further. I sail next week and will be in Boston by the 30th. Please write to me at the Hotel Vendome and say I may come to your house in Cambridge. Say you will see me, if only for an hour in the parlor.
You told me you would watch for news of my success. But I can only disappoint you. I am a failure at this life. If you will not have me, I will return to Arizona and work hard for my father. Perhaps I never should have left.
But whether or not I ever see you again, I swear I will always be
Your own boy,