Anna C Allison

Heavy is the Head that Wears the Crown

I will always describe my inauguration day as sunny. The Department of the Interior, in consultation with the Pentagon and Homeland Security, had erected a metal riser on the west front lawn of the Capitol building. It was shiny, and hot, and it reflected the sun like a mirror held up to a hill of ants. The ants, or rather, my constituents, spilled out across the National Mall like an endless, roiling sea. I kept glancing at them out of the corner of my eye. At the time, I thought record numbers of spectators had shown up to watch the first woman president say, “I do.” My vice president congratulated me on it. The calm, steady presence I’d needed to win the election flashed his TV anchor smile and told me that it was a proud day for America. His James Dean haircut, flecked with just enough gray to be dignified, told me he was probably right. I tried to believe him as the chief justice read me the oath, but my hand, placed delicately atop Lincoln’s Bible, kept twitching.