Continued from Love, love, why must I be alone?
The first entry from Yry’s new location in Cody doesn’t occur until April 22nd, 1943. From “Yry Press,” it seems safe to presume that between approximately April 3 – till April 8, she was in the vicinity of Cody.
On April 8th, she writes:
My Honey, Now I have to go on without you again and I’d rather just stop breathing—hibernate—till I could be with you again. Why do you do things to me that I never felt before? … Don’t worry, I don’t blame you, I’m a little afraid myself sometimes but I’ll never take you or anything about us for granted. Never hold you to anything. I only hope and pray that we should both continue caring and understanding each other as at present and that maybe someday these partings may cease. I want you always near darling, you’re all I have—the only one who really loves me and understands me or ever did understand and agree with my thoughts. Dallas, I know it must be this way and that I must make the best of it but I don’t have to like it. … I don’t want to go anywhere but to be near you. I love you dear so very deeply. Please do write, it means so very much to me. …
Blah, blah, it rambles for several more tortured lines. Did she ever mail this? She was in the habit of writing a rough draft of her letters, so perhaps she sent a copy. Or perhaps this was simply venting. She goes on:
They say that a man wants to be a woman’s first love but I cannot see the point for a first love has no reason behind it, no understanding of what love should be, what it entails, its responsibilities its great power and influence. I would not want to be married to my first or even my second, third, or fourth love for it took me all that and 15 years of experience at loving and disappointment and heartbreak and disillusionment to realize that a real & true & enduring love is not based on physical love alone and some sort of glamorous idealism that for the moment overlooks all undesirable characteristics and even things some desired one into the loved one that aren’t there. …
The essay goes on in this manner for several more pages. Surely she didn’t copy and mail this. Maybe she sent the first few paragraphs, but I can’t imagine that she would bore the poor fellow with prolix philosophy.