Kimonos in the Closet

Lincoln

7 Lincoln If it weren’t for the photographs, you might think Aeschylus or Euripides had made him up. Or that he was one of those biblical fellows tormented to the brink of what a soul can bear. But there he stands. Long black coat. Tall hat. Half a beard. Droopy eyes. Ears large enough to serve several men. Like the offspring of a midwife and a coroner. A tree impersonating a man. Alongside him, his generals seem daunted. Anxious for the day they too will grow into men. Then there’s that odd mix of joy and sorrow etched across his face. As when a joke hits a little too close to home. Given all that’s gone on—Gettysburg, Antietam, both Bull Runs, four long years of war, more than half a million dead, a wife moaning on the balconies, a child in the grave—Given all that . . . why hasn’t his hair turned pure white? ...