Yesterday’s mall walk: Brisk wind, hands stuffed in my sleeves and looking, always looking. The mall belongs to
everyone and holds everyone and when you walk through it on a clear fall day, it’s the people you notice first. They stroll, they stare, they move slowly. Sometimes they stop, right in front
of you. And then you (or at least I) roll my eyes and stride impatiently
around them. But the place is for them and of them and they make it sing, they
make it make sense.

Usually they come in groups. Families with toddlers who careen
down the broad gravel walkway. Tired mothers with purses worn across their
chest to leave their hands free for pushing a stroller or wiping a nose. Groups
of school kids with backpacks and more energy than seems possible. Tourists were everywhere yesterday — forming
lines at the Capitol, taking a break at the carousel, buying
hot dogs and ice cream in front of the Smithsonian Castle. 

And there I was, a reluctant
resident of our nation’s capital, someone who  routinely disparages the
traffic and the lack of place — until I take a walk on the Mall.
Until I see the people. And not just the tourists but people like me, office-dwellers with keys around their necks and tennis shoes on their
feet, all of us out for some air on a sunny afternoon. Runners and footballers and Frisbee throwers and people sitting quietly on a
park bench munching a sandwich and folks
strolling through the Botanical Gardens, learning to recognize the
switch grass from the blue stem. 

I know it’s probably just the endorphins from the walk, but these people, all of these people, the tourists and the residents, all of them seem glad to be alive on
this day and in this place. It’s easy to be one of them.