Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln…
There is candle wax on my table
from a flame that should by rights
have been doused long ago.
There is an empty chair
and a couch that pulls out
into a bed, waiting for you.
Waiting. Is there more to life than
looking ahead, peering into the fog-
bound harbor, looking for the lights
of an approaching ship?
At intermission, Martha took a short stroll
around the theater. Voices
hushed as she passed by.
Perhaps this would be the start
of something better, a lifting of the
gloom that had sunk deep into the
walls and floors of the house.
White, indeed. Nothing was darker
than that swampy prison. Maybe
a night out at the theater
was what they needed.
I set a place for you at the table.
Thinking that maybe you’d change
your mind. I know, I know.
Presumptuous. I made all
your favorite dishes. Couscous with
steamed vegetables. Lentil and barley soup.
Flatbread from my own oven.
Of course, all this is theater in its
own way. I have no idea which
foods you like. That’s a fundamental
thing to not know about someone.
The walk back to their private box
seemed longer than usual.
A private box. Who would have thought
Martha Todd would be
in the president’s box at the theater?
Her husband had already taken his seat
for the second act. Such a lovely idea,
the theater, she thought.
A whole world inside these walls, the harsh
reality of war and melancholy shut out
beyond the velvet ropes.
I appear to be eating alone. Again.
I waited until I felt foolish,
checked the door because sometimes
the bell doesn’t work. Thought maybe you’d
be standing there and we’d laugh
at another near miss.
The second act was well under way
when Martha felt a breeze on the back
of her neck from the curtains
of their box parting. She heard
someone step into the box
behind them.
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