214 E. 15th St.
N.Y., 3, N.Y.

Nov 4, 1951

My Dearest Esperanza,

Farewell to dreams that now,
never can come true - dreams we
dreamed to-gether. Hopes and
plans are buried here where
you and my heart lie to-gether.

Time stole our youth,
Death stole my love,
And the heart that in bitterness cries
Crushed by despair at
the bier of the dead,
Grieves with its hopes to die.

One last hope
One last wish
One last kiss
Yo te quiero para siempre jamas,
            Henry

The cold steady rain of the last two days has been followed by the coldest weather of the season and as I leave the house in the early afternoon the empty streets are swept by a chilling east wind. An old dejected derelict, one of society's cast-aways, is fingering thorugh the garbage pails looking for food.

Crossing through the park the pigeons move aisde stiffly - their feathers fluffed to keep out the cold.

The steam rising from the sewer covers is blown like streamers by the wind that sighs about the rusting fire escapes hanging from the grim warehouses and dilapidated tenements. Few people are abroad and I hurry along the dirty streets going west "cross town", back to the area where she and I once looked at this same city through the rose colored glasses of love and hope to a future we would work out together. "New York, the city of opportunity, where more than eight million people live in peace and harmony and enjoy the benefits of Democracy" - so repeats the

radio daily - but I note only the rows of vile "rooming houses" advertising "vacancies" - a 6 x 10 room with bed that is "home" for millions - The "American way" of life - that becomes a rut until it deepens into a grave.

"La Prensa" is blown underfoot and I am made aware of the increasing number of Spanish speaking peoples now living in these slum areas. If their condition here is better than in Puerto Rico it can't have improved much.

I pass the subway station and arrive at the place she and I called our palace. The coal smoke mingling with the damp atmosphere chokes you. Torn, stained mattresses lie discarded on the sidewalk and several lean cats climb from an open garbage can and stalk away.

I look at the shabby building - a warehouse on one side, a garage at the other - at the unpainted window sashes with occasional panes cracked and broken - to the top floor where we for a month or two, were in paradise.

Drearily I turn down the street - just one and one half blocks to west street, the waterfront, the piers where I used to work as a longshoreman - risking my life constantly for $1.75 per hour. Because of the strike the entire waterfront is dead now. The saloons and bars, locked and barred, but reeking with stale beer are darkened. The cheap lunch rooms are deserted and among the dozens of transport trucks parked along the piers nothing stirs. I proceed to a dismantled pier - an old ferry boat landing and walk out onto the rotting timbers. The tide is in and the deep cold green water laps and gurgles at the mossy piling. Several lonely seagulls scream at the cutting wind and gulp morsels of refuse from the filthy back-wash.

I move back toward the street and notice a small lad approaching. His hands stuck deep into his pockets, his clothing whipping about him, his forlorn look make me shy quickly away. I fear a "touch" and I have less than 50 cents

to meet whatever expenses I may have until my next G.I. check arrives and it has been overdue three weeks. I fling a stone into the water, watch it dipping, sliding, sinking into oblivion then hurry on.

The moan of the traffic on the overhead highway, a passing tug, a piece of sheet metal flapping from a nearby coal dock are all that is stirring as I continue toward pier 74 where I'll turn and head back East. Looking toward the city again the guant outline of the Empire State Bldg dwarfs all else. A giant, cold, dead pile. There has been no sunlight all day and the roofs of the freight cars crowded into the sidings are covered with snow. I hurry on through "Hell's Kitchen" where lines of laundry strung between rows of squalid buildings flap in the wind. Two red nosed scantily clad boys shiver as they stand on a grill from which warm air is rising.

Farther on a shoe shine "boy" of at least fifty stands with his box outside a restaurant. A lad with a gummed weight with a long cord attached is fishing for coins lost in the subway air grilles.

I have made the circuit - from East to West, then north along the river, then Eastward toward home. The gray deepens into dusk, at an intersection I jump hastily aside to avoid being run down by a driver making a drunken left turn. In the middle of the block I find a crutch lying at the curb, possibly dropped at the scene of an accident to a cripple.

I go several blocks out of my way to carry a small package to a friend. Bill is glad to see me, offers me a cigar and slips the package into his pocket. "I was just leaving" he says, "I'll walk you to the corner. I'm going to the hospital. Amy and the baby are doing fine. Thanks for these announcements."

"Tell her," I say as we part, "but break it gently, tell her Esperanza just died."

"Oh! Sure!" and he hurried on.