***
The well never truly empties, for if it does, then so does the soul. My feet ache, and middle-aged limbs begin their dire insistence for respite. Aged and ever-wizening eyes become the conduit for introspective appreciation: a solitary presence blessed by Providence to fill to the brim, once again, a chalice of self-evident truths.
It’s late afternoon in front of Capitol Hill and a light breeze languishes across the grounds, overturning oak leaves, their colors cast in shades of faded mint and ember gold. The lawn is strewn with them. The area teems with people of many nations, different origins, languages, and belief systems. They’re here as more than tourists. They descend upon the District to breathe the air of a system which, thus far, has exceeded the expectations of some, chagrined others, and been forgotten or taken for granted by the majority. Each person here is a willing participant in the passion and vision which history has bequeathed us.
God Himself crossed the paths of our forefathers. It seems unquestionable, beyond the scope of any plausible deniability—men of fortitude, vision, heart, and even pugnacious audacity, brought together not so much as conspirators of absolute rule or domination, but as the progenitors of the just, the parental accord for the children of freedom.
I have walked much for one day, yet every footfall a labor of love. I do it not from obligation, rather need—an almost insatiable desire to imprint the essence of America upon my deepest conscience. The humblest recesses of my heart know well this ardor; it manifests most every time I hear the strains of the Star Spangled Banner. Yet somehow I fear, however needlessly, I don’t show it. That in my oft-resolute silence I shall miss the window of opportunity to hand to my son the gifted emotion of Liberty, derived not of loquaciousness, but from heartfelt observation and dutiful attention to sovereign pride.
We the people have within our grasp the perpetual honor of teaching our children things which sterile textbooks can only dream of imparting—what it took, what it means, what it is to be American.
I sit and write, literally under one of the lamp stanchions at the top of the steps leading to the Capitol building. Atop the balcony, just below the rotunda, a flag waves in the breeze—a flag borne of a people craving to make their own destiny, to “start the world anew.” In mid pen stroke I’m approached.
“Excuse me, do you know where the Lincoln Memorial is?” I grin at the stranger, stifling the urge to point at my heart.
“Well, come over here and I’ll show you.” I leave my belongings at the base of the stanchion, stepping to the left until we can see down the center of the National Mall where the Washington Monument punctuates the halfway point.
“See the Washington Monument?” I say, like an idiot.
“Yes.”
“Walk straight down the mall, past the monument, and you’ll run right into it.” He thanks me and disappears. On a clear day you can see the Lincoln Monument from the Capitol steps…but not today. A veil of dirty cotton haze obscures it. But he’ll find it—She calls to anyone within proximity, beckoning everyone to be inspired.
As I return to my makeshift desk, I look up to see a group of three people, two women and one man, sitting upon the first tier of six steps leading to the Capitol building proper. One of the women fouls my personal sanctity of this place with a lit cigarette. A few moments later a family of four, perhaps Hindus, descends the same steps. Yet another group of British tourists meanders across the path in front of the Senate wing. Slight irony there, I’d say.
It has been a beautiful day to be an American in D.C. The large walls that once surrounded the Washington Monument are gone now. The fountains play in the World War II Veterans Memorial, and the Reflecting Pool once again undulates with water. And still, yet another unexpected surprise: I am able to walk around the south side of the White House, something I’d been unable to do until now.
I’ve made my way from Fifth Street and H in Chinatown all the way around the Tidal Basin to see the Jefferson Memorial, then continued around the back, through the FDR Memorial and to perhaps my favorite of the monuments, the Lincoln Memorial. Finally, I’ve traipsed back up the mall to sit, write, and wait.
For what?
For the sun to set and to watch the Capitol building light up. A cadre of men once did the same, watching the sun set on an oppressive British Empire and a new, promising light dawn upon an infant nation based in freedom and liberty…as it of right ought to be.
In 1852, in a speech before the Massachusetts Antislavery Society, abolitionist Wendell Phillips said, “Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty.” I shall do my best to remain vigilant for my son, and quietly try to teach him the same.
Chayce, look…see the sun, how it sets. And see the lights push back the dark on the Capitol.
You too must do whatever it takes to keep those lights on, son.
About the Author
J.W. Nicklaus resides in a place not entirely fit for human habitation about five months of the year. No pets to speak of, only the apparitions from which all romantics suffer.
An Arizona native, he’s been from one coast to the other, and a few places in between. Snow has been featured prominently in his stories, perhaps because of the seasonless climate he lives in. Nature was meant to be enjoyed and experienced, not hidden from the senses. So to that end, he hopes someday to live amongst those who are able to live through four true seasons, and not just blast furnace and warm.
He enjoys the occasional Arizona Diamondbacks game with his son, as well as watching him grow up. The experience of being a single dad has taught him far more about himself than he ever thought possible.
Within the expanse of every waking moment, he hopes his guardian angel keeps its arms open wide and heart ever watchful, for there but for one true Hope goes She.
J.W. Nicklaus may be contacted at
[email protected].
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