I Dreamt of Woodrow Wilson’s Ear

By Donald Holmes Lewis

Copyright 2009 

I dreamt of Woodrow Wilson’s ear last night and I blew warm air into it like an intimate friend would do. I hoped to comfort him. The League of Nations was dead, and he was still sick. Our world of hope was dissolving like seltzer in water. “It’s not your fault,” I whispered. “It’s not your fault.” He blamed himself despite the evidence. A conscience, he said, is not easily compromised, guilt even more stubborn. He dresssed for dinner in formal wear though he never left his room. When his staff of devoted servants called him for beef and gravy, he was asleep in his clothes, breathing heavily in his bed. We left him alone, and for that I felt rotten and lost my appetite while eating with the others in the White House kitchen.

When I woke from the dream, I drank warm milk and tried to stay awake. I could not.

The President said he wanted eggs and toast, and I rang the bell. He walked from the marbled bathroom to his grand wooden desk, and I opened the roll top for him. His shiny silk bathrobe held him in a delicate embrace though his body was barely visible, He asked about the vote. I told him it was uncertain, and he knew me a liar instantly. I drew a pillow from the couch and helped him into his chair for the writing of morning letters.

The first, he said, was to the President of the Senate. As he placed his glasses on the tip of his nose and pressed ink into the stationery, I saw he was using the same words as the day before. “I am counting on you. I cannot be there. I am counting on you.”

“Mr. President,” I said with my hand on his shoulder. “He received this message yesterday. And the day before.”

“I know, my son. I will write it anyway.”