lingered just as perfectly in my nostrils as it had from envelope to pyre. Beautiful as Capitalism. Beautiful as you before I tuck you in on the rare nights I see you for longer than a peck goodnight.
Sweet Ellie Anne, I’m sorry to say you may loathe me like a Socialist in a second; so don’t grin at any of my compliments (as truthful as they are), don’t set your hopes too high, and collect your breath now.
If it may calm some carnivorous beast in your head before any bloodshed, let me remind you of a few things:
You know I admire and adore you, as shown by how much I parade you around the dance floor at those Senate parties you’ve developed such a strange taste for.
You know I love you and have tried my best to accommodate you in all hardship, as evidenced by all the dark dankness our first kiss was shrouded in.
Remember, love? You had on the palest blue nightie, too thin to conceal your pouted breasts or the bluest night of your life—as far as you knew. You begged me not to tell your father you snuck out to meet a girlfriend at Lincoln Memorial, glass bottle of ill repute in your shaking hand. You promised me you’d be “better” and “surprise” me if I obeyed you.
I said it was irresponsible to deprive your father of knowledge he had a right to know—especially since what he was explicitly trying to keep you from was this girlfriend and malt crushes while he was working.
You surprised me anyway; you kissed me like I’d just come home from war and made me swear I wouldn’t neglect you like your father. Otherwise, you’d “never dream again” because you’d destroy yourself in some wretched way . . . That threat has never come to pass because you know I want to see your dainty dreams made flesh . You know I want to see you get better and make the right choices . . . But you also know that the stakes of your dreams are high-risk.
As passionate as we’ve been, I’ve never asked anything bawdy of you; it is ungentlemanly. As much as I’ve internally griped, I’ve never complained of your questionable friendships; it is ungrounded worry-work. As much as you’ve come to mean to me, I couldn’t request that you sacrifice for me; it is unjustifiable, unthinkable .
Just the same, you cannot ask me or expect me to terminate a vow I made to a woman I dated before your very existence . Just the same, you cannot be blinded by a mirage of light; you must be far-sighted and practical in your aspirations, lest you leave me blind-sided, my career incapacitated, because of your tunnel vision.
As a Congressman, a Christian, a husband and a father, I have reservations about your advice, Ellie Anne. It comes from a good—albeit an academic —place for when the sun sets and the stars rise, in the eyes of the law and in popular nomenclature, you are still a child. A fair-haired, Bambi-eyed child.
Of course, I see you as a miniature, sumptuous and wondrous woman, but that’s not what Congress sees you as. That’s not what a jury would see you as, if ever they wanted to impeach me or convict me of a worse crime than lying about an affair. I cannot let the number 16 destroy me, destroy us . We must speak softly; we must sleep separately; at least until you’re of age.
Listen here and quell your protests: Loving you is a Herculean task in itself so you needn’t ask me more than that. You still need to be taught what love is . You’re old enough to learn and just young enough to believe in it. But you also need to abandon this childish “resolve” to truly experience it. So far, you only appreciate; you only love what I can give you—not what I have.
Don’t misjudge me. Love is never all that is required and that does not diminish your gesture.
Know that marriage, like proper government, is an institution poorly served by drastic change. There are agendas, compromise, and work. There are checks and balances.
Of course, I want to see you smiling and giggling in my lap while we joke about politics and
Sweet Ellie Anne, I’m sorry to say you may loathe me like a Socialist in a second; so don’t grin at any of my compliments (as truthful as they are), don’t set your hopes too high, and collect your breath now.
If it may calm some carnivorous beast in your head before any bloodshed, let me remind you of a few things:
You know I admire and adore you, as shown by how much I parade you around the dance floor at those Senate parties you’ve developed such a strange taste for.
You know I love you and have tried my best to accommodate you in all hardship, as evidenced by all the dark dankness our first kiss was shrouded in.
Remember, love? You had on the palest blue nightie, too thin to conceal your pouted breasts or the bluest night of your life—as far as you knew. You begged me not to tell your father you snuck out to meet a girlfriend at Lincoln Memorial, glass bottle of ill repute in your shaking hand. You promised me you’d be “better” and “surprise” me if I obeyed you.
I said it was irresponsible to deprive your father of knowledge he had a right to know—especially since what he was explicitly trying to keep you from was this girlfriend and malt crushes while he was working.
You surprised me anyway; you kissed me like I’d just come home from war and made me swear I wouldn’t neglect you like your father. Otherwise, you’d “never dream again” because you’d destroy yourself in some wretched way . . . That threat has never come to pass because you know I want to see your dainty dreams made flesh . You know I want to see you get better and make the right choices . . . But you also know that the stakes of your dreams are high-risk.
As passionate as we’ve been, I’ve never asked anything bawdy of you; it is ungentlemanly. As much as I’ve internally griped, I’ve never complained of your questionable friendships; it is ungrounded worry-work. As much as you’ve come to mean to me, I couldn’t request that you sacrifice for me; it is unjustifiable, unthinkable .
Just the same, you cannot ask me or expect me to terminate a vow I made to a woman I dated before your very existence . Just the same, you cannot be blinded by a mirage of light; you must be far-sighted and practical in your aspirations, lest you leave me blind-sided, my career incapacitated, because of your tunnel vision.
As a Congressman, a Christian, a husband and a father, I have reservations about your advice, Ellie Anne. It comes from a good—albeit an academic —place for when the sun sets and the stars rise, in the eyes of the law and in popular nomenclature, you are still a child. A fair-haired, Bambi-eyed child.
Of course, I see you as a miniature, sumptuous and wondrous woman, but that’s not what Congress sees you as. That’s not what a jury would see you as, if ever they wanted to impeach me or convict me of a worse crime than lying about an affair. I cannot let the number 16 destroy me, destroy us . We must speak softly; we must sleep separately; at least until you’re of age.
Listen here and quell your protests: Loving you is a Herculean task in itself so you needn’t ask me more than that. You still need to be taught what love is . You’re old enough to learn and just young enough to believe in it. But you also need to abandon this childish “resolve” to truly experience it. So far, you only appreciate; you only love what I can give you—not what I have.
Don’t misjudge me. Love is never all that is required and that does not diminish your gesture.
Know that marriage, like proper government, is an institution poorly served by drastic change. There are agendas, compromise, and work. There are checks and balances.
Of course, I want to see you smiling and giggling in my lap while we joke about politics and
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