Lincoln's Spirit

April 15, 1865, 7:20
The spirit stood, his lanky frame weathered by the past five years of the Civil War.  His shoulders sagged.  He looked down at President Lincoln's body, his body.  He should feel something, shouldn't he?  Not pain, but something....  He was President Abraham Lincoln.  Hell, he was dead.  Shouldn't he grieve? 

The shell of his body lay there on a bed that was too short for him. His face looked haggard.  He bowed his head.  He would have liked to have at least died in his own bed where he was comfortable.  But he guessed Secretary of War Edwin Stanton had other things to deal with, one of those being the hunt for who was responsible for this.

He tried to remember if he'd heard anyone mention names of who was responsible.  He shook his head unable to remember.  The face on his body looked tired and drawn.  Eyes sunken.  He'd been shot in the back of the head.  He remembered the doctors talking about that.  Dr. Taft bent over the body, his body.  If he kept thinking it was his body, he might feel something.

Dr. Taft's fingers felt for a pulse.  The doctor shook his head and looked at his watch.

Whispers floated on the air.  "Seven twenty-two....  Mark it down....  President Lincoln died at seven twenty-two."

Silence encrypted them all until Stanton said, "Now he belongs to the ages."  Stanton reached out to touch Reverend Mr. Gruley's arm.  "Doctor, please lead in prayer."

Mary?  Where was his Mary?  He turned, remembering the cries from a distant room of the house.  Without searching he was standing by his Mary.  She gently rocked, crying inconsolably.  He reached out to touch her, to feel her soft hair once again.  She gasped between sobs catching her breath.  Don't cry for me, my love.

Bells tolled outside.  He stood in the street, behind the crowd, listening to the bells ringing through Washington.  So it was true.  He was dead.  He had wondered for a moment if it wasn't another dream.  His chest rose and fell as if to breathe in the sweet air of life, of Washington.  People wept and sang and prayed there in the street. 

Abraham Lincoln's spirit put his hands in his pants pockets and slowly walked back toward the White House.  He needed to go home.  He had unfinished business....