Night on the National Mall

N i g h t o n t h e N a t i o n a l M a l l

The only sound’s a bleared stream of headlights like running water I almost can’t hear moving in and out of earshot across an immense span of lawn between the Capitol dome and a towering spike ringed by fifty limp flags––no sound downwind of that limp circle except an underwater hush now magnified by the weight of acres of darkening marble, as if dusk’s sealing me inside the feeling of a tomb.

Shade trees pool their shadows too deep, brimming with threats of imagined danger where lamps have burned out along the gravel walkway, the crunch and release underfoot loud as gnawing insects.

Powdery phalanx of Japan’s gift of the cherry trees along the pewter-tinted waters of the tidal basin, now deserted as I drift through the festival’s pastel-scented blossoms, each cluster delicate, soft as the skin of newborn’s wrist— moving away from Jefferson—tall, aristocratic on his pedestal, lips pressed too tight, stance a little too jaunty, his face perhaps a touch smug as he stares in perpetuity

across the once-fecund pools, his shrine lit from within like the eye of giant national security camera.

Everyone, by turns, shooting photos rapid as machinegun fire of the same thing: war memorials, one’s polished granite etched scrolls itemizing names of the dead, while another tries to capture the posture of an uncle who was shot and bled flag-red; my grandfather’s perfect bronzed combat boots, fellow soldiers in perpetual march with bootfalls that never touch down suspended in mid-stride, mocked by a paver’s intermittent crawl of ants.

Still, I might walk toward an eternal flame, cross a bridge into lush rolling green hills planted with flawless white crosses; witness the painstaking ritual and stoicism of tightjawed sentinels changing guard; and later, kneel as inside a temple, drawn by the moonlit glow of Lincoln’s cragged and warty face, left hand curled at the knuckles, his right upturned in a gesture of national supplication, melancholy eyes transfixed by the soft webbed skid of a pair of mallards landing in unison on placid night waters, silent rippling slivers of current, a peace that passes all understanding forever trailing, closing in their wakes.