District of Colombia

My sister Amanda Joe and I finally made it to Washington, D.C. last weekend, and the city felt like it had been quietly reborn. By day the monuments still carry their familiar weight (marble and memory), but at night everything softens and shines. We walked the length of the Reflecting Pool just after sunset, the Lincoln Memorial glowing like a Greek temple someone left the lights on in, its columns reflected perfectly in the still water. Farther down, the Washington Monument rose sharp and white against indigo, its red aircraft lights blinking slowly, almost politely. Even the Capitol dome, which I remembered as stern and gray from childhood photos, now looked gilded and almost weightless under the floodlights.

We stood on the steps of the Jefferson Memorial while the Tidal Basin lapped quietly below us, cherry trees black silhouettes against the city’s low glow. Amanda whispered that Jefferson drafted the Declaration right here on this ground (well, not this exact spot, but close enough), and somehow the thought made the warm night air feel older and younger at the same time. The newer additions (the MLK Memorial, the smooth curve of the Wharf along the Potomac) caught the light in ways the old city never never used to; everything felt polished, alive, proud without being loud about it. We ended the night on the rooftop of the Kennedy Center, the river sliding past below us like dark glass, and Amanda just laughed and said, “Who knew history could look this beautiful after midnight?” I didn’t have an answer; I was too busy watching the whole capital shimmer, grateful that some places really do get better with time..