Spring in our nation’s capital is a marvelous thing. Splendor busts forth from every quarter. You can’t even begrudge the gamillion or so tourists who come to partake.
Like so many others, I headed to the Tidal Basin for the cherry trees, choosing to go a few days before the weekend’s crush. Not quite at peek, the almost-there blossoms’ potential for even greater beauty is a little thrilling. I love the promise they hold. The flowers hang like pixies’ hoop skirts in delicate clusters of the faintest blush, their brighter centers laughing in the sunlight. It never gets old.
I knew to expect that. What I hadn’t accounted for this time was the effect of the crowd and the monuments that also encircle the Basin. Testy divisions melted away as wildly diverse groups mingled beneath the blooming boughs, happily conjoined by the moment and its frothy pinkness. Inflamed, divisive rhetoric seemed far removed — and all the more ridiculous — in the face of clarion calls from Jefferson, Roosevelt and King.
Spring breezes wafted by and buds teetered on their perch. The words, etched in stone, were solid, sustaining. Balm for the soul, pressed from pink blossoms and less purple prose.