Driving down the George Washington Parkway, along the Potomac last night, with the lights of the city rising through the trees, it was hard not to feel it. The Lincoln Memorial. The Jefferson Memorial. They positively shined.
I crossed into the city late, after a seven hour drive from Ohio, over the 14th St. Bridge. I drove North on 14th Street, passing the U.S. Holocaust Memorial Museum, and then, at the mall, I stopped at a traffic signal. Ahead of me, the street was awash in brake lights. Far in the distance, by Pennsylvania Ave., emergency lights flashed, blocking off the road to traffic. Then, I glanced up to my left, and was almost shocked to see the Washington Monument, ringed with American flags.
How many times have I seen that monument? I have pictures somewhere from a family trip — I was probably 13 years old — with my sisters, my mom and dad. I’m on the ground, looking up through the viewfinder, framing my sister Becky’s face, her brown braids hanging down, monument rising up forever above her. I lived in this town for much of my twenties — the Clinton years — and still, I can honestly say, I don’t think I ever actually saw the Washington Monument once.
And yet there I was last night, stopped at a light, the damn thing soaring — truly soaring — like some kind of a beacon into the night, and all those flags — American flags — and what I felt was: This is my town.
Finally.
And what I felt, as the light turned and I plunged across the mall, and saw dozens more American flags, slanting up proudly beneath every window of the Willard Intercontinental Hotel: It’s good to be home.