Saturday, September 10, 2022
Our first elevator ride takes us 21 floors up—where we rest across from Jack London Square Station’s arching phosphorescent lights. Our beds lie adjacent to the station’s glooming glow, seeping into our hotel room windows through the evening. Bedside binoculars give clear views across the Potomac and into Arlington—where some still question TheDistrict’s incentives on keeping that city’s name.
Watching Gus change his shirt and untie the blinds, our room dims but becomes ambient by the strike of a match. He lights the candles at the end of his nightstand and kneels at the shoulder of his bed. He gathers his hands on his lap and lifts his chin for the heavens to hear. Meanwhile, Remi and I tuck ourselves into the other queen bed to sleep head to toe.
We can assume Mr. Jack Slick prays. We can also assume he weeps by the sniffles above his sheets. But as Remi untucks herself, she crouches to sit bedside next to Gus, handing him tissues from the nightstand. “Dad, your eyes,” she says. She rubs his back on his eighth sniffle, whispering in tune… a rhythm I’m unfamiliar with, but maybe a melody I’ve slept through—or a harmony we’ve lauded over the many men of protection and guidance:
“Daddy, oh daddy, please don’t you cry,
The sun still shines down on our story that thrives,
We’ll need you on this land, as many have tried,
I’ll wipe your tears for now, so please stop the cry.
Give thanks with me for a safe journey through night,
You’re strong to follow your heart against a fight,
So hold your tears for now ‘cause we’ll be alright…”
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