Abraham Lincoln

Written by Jacob Ibrag

‘Stories carry feathers. Feathers carry weight.

Some feathers float while others stagnate.’

The little girl stared at her father as he played

the typewriter at what seemed to be record

breaking speeds. He had deadlines to meet

and bosses to please. Every now and then the

little girl would shift her attention towards

her favorite book about Abraham Lincoln. As

far as she was concerned, he was a hero for all

and someone she looked up to. Looking back

at her father,  she proclaimed to him, ‘when

I grow up I’m going to be just like Lincoln,

full of courage and pure intentions.’ Changing

gears from newsman to father, he grinned

at her and was certainly proud of her. Yet he

felt a little bothered. Being a storyteller for the

paper meant to sometimes bend the truth and

ignore little details. And sometimes little details

would add up. And sometimes the truth would

evolve into a convenient lie. A perpetual cycle

that existed whether he participated or spectated.

His daughter wanted to emulate a great figure

of history, so why was he upset? A part of him

wanted to tell her that there was no way she

would ever be Abraham Lincoln. That no one

will ever be Abraham Lincoln. That not even

Abraham Lincoln was Abraham Lincoln, that

he was a man of flaws and far from perfection.

That his road was painted with burgundy blood

drenched in boot crushed earth which her book

failed to mention. That as time went on, people

dismantled what they didn’t like and kept what

they thought was relevant. He was mortal with

raw emotions, he was more than just a president.

Blinking back into the present moment, he kissed

his daughters cheek and told her that anything was

 possible, ‘your story has yet to be written.’

---

Artist Unknown