What does a man do, does he sit in his chair, in the middle of a room, and wait?
I have not adjusted to Willie’s death. Just a few days ago he was alive, riding on his pony; then, then the four of us stood around his grave.
The night he died I sat up all night; I worked with letters, documents, senate papers, proposals for a rail west, telegrams reporting the war. Someone brought me coffee.
Jip came in, and sat on my lap.
It is one thing to encounter personal loss in the theatre, another to read a tragedy; certainly it is another emotion to face it yourself, to realize that no power can reinstate.
The disciples had their hands full when their Lord and Master was crucified. I do not measure my little boy as any kind of lord but he was my son, a promise. The father in me does not go away.
I go, now, to curry Old Abe.
I would like to chop wood a while.
White House