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April 26 1944 Dear Kiddo, Today not mail from you. No mail from you in the last 10 days. The New Yorker is writing me more often than you do. Or maybe I'll get tomorrow quite a bunch of delayed mail? Dear I'm sorry for not having mail from you and the way I started this letter is not the way I wanted to write you. Because today is one year and one day since I left you. Yesterday was the year but so many things happened around here that I wasn't able to sit down and write one word. Today is my saddest day and I'm really lovesick, sick of wanting to see you and talk to you. Dear you can't feel what I feel, it's like an iron circle around me, well, I don't know how to explain it. But it's not something of the moment, it's not because I have not the right people around me and that sort of transitory unhappiness that can make even an arid man homesick. It's something I always desired and I knew I'd be homesick for you since I left you and I told you that even before, in the happy days of 50th St. I always desired you and when I met you I suddenly thought - there she is! I was homesick for you even before I knew you. You understand what I mean [[strikethrough]] for [[/strikethrough]] by "homesick" Dearest you are my girl, I want to give you everything I have, you want one finger