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I had not been back to the U.S. Capitol for a year, since the last impeachment trial. I parked my car a few blocks away and walked to a checkpoint. A handful of national guardsman in camouflage, shouldering assault rifles, stood by as I showed my credential to the Capitol Police officers manning the gate, and then passed through the gap in the razor-wire-topped fencing.
I made a point each day of saying hello to the soldiers. I figured they might be missing home. It was a way to signal to each other — a form of trying to reassure ourselves — that we were all in this together or something, or that we’re still all human, that we don’t have to be afraid of one another. We hope. I was grateful they were there, even though it broke my heart that they needed to be.
Once past the razor wire, it was always very quiet. I walked the sidewalks where I’d strolled countless times on sunny days with my kids, or to meet a congressional aide for coffee, past the park where I’d let our dog run free and chase squirrels a few months ago. At lunch time I walked outside into the vast and majestic pavilion on the east front of the Capitol, eating my carryout meal in the chill to reduce the risk of getting COVID inside. I looked around at the space where our children have run free and cruised on their scooters, in the shadow of one of the greatest…
