The Butterfly Temptress

{Most of you know that I grew up in D.C. Though I live in Pittsburgh now, D.C. is home,the place I long to return to, the place I want to spend more time in as an adult. This was another writing assignment in college. My professor ended up booking a weekend in D.C. shortly after reading this. I can never do the city justice with my words, I know, but this is just one of the many experiences that will stay with me until the end of time.}

Sweet D.C.

A walk through the nations capitol at night is a far cry from the walks one takes during the day. Along the winding Potomac, across the lawn next to the Reflecting Pool, standing at the base of the Washington Monument, everything is different. Gone is the blazing summer sun and heavy smog, and in its place is an almost tropical evening air.

The traffic slows on the surrounding streets. During rush hour the fumes from dump trucks, the squealing tires of a Porche that had a near miss, and the low hum of the Metro assault my senses on every corner. In the middle of the night I can see the brand new Lexus pass beneath the Beltway interchange. I can hear the road debris crunch beneath the tires of the stretch limo escorting a party of political officials as it stop at a light just changed from yellow to serious red. Absent are the blaring horns, thumping bass and shouts of road raged drivers.

Winding my way out of the patch of shrubbery onto the open grounds and the smell of cherry blossoms overwhelms me. The stench of exhaust is a distant memory. With a deep breath my nostrils are filled with their essence, the smell of pretzels sold from the metal carts and the lingering trace of a womans expensive perfume.

Beyond the carousel with its romantic lilt I can hear the sounds of other night owls enjoying the city. A jazz band in a martini bar, opera from the Italian ristorante and the play by play report from the sports bar. Easy listening pours from a side street hideaway frequented by lovers, especially those whos trysts will make the morning Post because they’re from the hill.

Across the bridge is the naval yard, never quiet, always guarded by one of the few, one of the proud- a United States Marine. With his firearm swung to hang down his back he stands watch. As if moved by a force not seen, I suddenly find myself standing at The Wall.
Softly lit, cool to the touch, I take it all in. At the opposite end of where you stand, too far for you to touch but too close to allow privacy, there stands a Marine in dress blues. Through his quiet sobs I hear the story of orders received, memories yet to be made and hidden pride hidden just beneath the surface.

As the tears trail down my face I turn to stare at him. With the execution of a perfect salute, he begins to walk away. A chill runs down my face as the wind begins to blow and in the distance I swear I can hear a lone bugle playing “Taps”.

{This was a writing assignment for Composition I in college. It was the only class that I received all A’s in, the only time I can remember making a professor and fellow classmates cry. I like that I can write from the heart and move people around me. I hope you enjoy it.}

Where I’m From

I am from skeletons in the closet
Secrets kept, never told
I’m from runaway trains
On a one way track
Moss covered rocks, faulty condoms and an old knapsack

I am from the cycle
Rumored never ending
Disproved because I’m free
I’m from God’s redeeming grace
Strong enough, brave enough
To never tolerate
To heal from
The weight of those trains pressing down on me

I’m from Texas, Mexico, southern Virginia and sweet D.C.
Where they came from, I’ll never go
I’ll never be
For their closed minds and closed doors
Are now my own open windows of opportunity

I’m from the truth shall set you free
I’d rather die standing than live on my knees
From the chorus often repeated of the song “Let It Be”
The girl in the mirror with tears in her eyes
The one I used to see
Now I’m a woman with her shoulders back
Head held high
From the ashes of their  ruined lives,  that phoenix rising is me