I pushed Alex's stroller up to the Metro elevator. Three women approached as the elevator arrived. They wore standard tourist fare: mismatching t-shirts and baseball caps, shorts, sneakers, and cameras.
She spoke with a thick accent. "Are you going to say goodbye to Mr. Reagan?"
"Yes. We are." I pushed the stroller into the open elevator door. "What do you think of him?"
"He freed our country."
"What country do you come from?"
"Nicaragua."
I know Mr. Reagan would have been pleased to hear her response. I said nothing, thinking about the former President's controversial record with our neighbors to the south.
I got off the train much later and found a shady spot along Constitution Avenue, the people six-deep between me and the street. We had about an hour to wait in the sweltering, muggy D.C. heat.
On the street, soldiers and sailors stood in formation waiting for the procession to begin, many in dark wool uniforms. Before long, several had fainted in the heat. The crowd applauded, sincerely, each as they stood back up and returned to the formation. We spectators watched in shorts, cowering under a tree, quenching our thirst from plastic coolers. They were stood at attention, on blacktop, in fiercest June. They deserved our gratitude.
It felt as if the procession came sooner than it should have. We should not have had it so easy, to wait mere minutes so that we could step into history. The caisson came, bearing the casket we had come to see, and passed all too swiftly.
Behind it came the limousines, waves of them. I did not expect to see Mrs. Reagan through the glass, bravely acknowledging the adoration with a simple wave. I did not expect my heart to break when I saw the grief in her eyes.
After they had passed, we lingered a while, like much of the crowd, not really knowing what to do next. We were still walking slowly back to the Metro when the planes came, first one, then four, than four, then just three with a gap in the middle.
We stopped to observe, and then we kept going.
I have posted some pictures. Bare-bones pages because it's late and I'm exhausted.
Posted by wasylik at June 9, 2004 11:57 PM | TrackBack