The prompt for Sunday Scribblings is MOMENT
MARY LINCOLN AT FORD'S THEATER
She sat there, loving, petulant, unwise,
by him whose giant shadow through the age
would cast its knobby shape on history's page.
She smoothed her gown, her modish beaded prize
and leaned against him, but demurred aloud,
"What will they think?" "Why nothing," he replied.
Sad prisoner of herself, her boundaries set
at margins of her days, yet her command
could compass his great heart, whose unreined power
had freed the burdened slave; he brooded yet
over the bleeding rift that cleft his land.
Her plump ringed hand held his a final hour.
Phyllis Sterling Smith