What Would They Say?

It was a strange dream, the kind you never forget. Of course, talking to a president isn't something you do every day.

It was the night one more line was crossed, when the White House lawn became a campaign rally - remember that night? I forced myself to listen to the President's long, rambling speech, dripping with falsehoods; I gritted my teeth through the fireworks over the Washington Monument, while he stood with all his children, his whole dynasty lined up beside him on the stage. The flags flapped behind him as he turned and waved to the crowd. Sitting side by side, not a mask to be seen, they cheered and waved back.

I turned off the TV and trudged sadly to bed, only to toss and turn for hours before I finally fell into an uneasy sleep. Then I began to dream.

In my dream I was back at the White House, walking across that same lawn. All the guests had all gone home, leaving it trampled, gouged with deep holes from a thousand chairs. Banners and garbage lay scattered everywhere.

Stumbling over the uneven ground, I made my way up to the front door. It stood open, and a few dead leaves skittered across the floor in the moonlight. "Hello?" I called. Only an echoing silence. I ventured in, uncertain, and started to make my way down the halls.

The lights were low as I walked down those corridors with their polished floors. My footsteps seemed so loud, and the chandeliers jingled softly above me as I moved, and still - no one, anywhere.

All along the halls were portraits glowing in the dim light, and I began to realize many of them were paintings of our past presidents. I stopped at George Washington's portrait, standing by his desk with papers in his hand. I wondered, what was it like, to be at the birth of a nation? I walked on a bit, to the portrait of Lincoln, staring out the window of the Oval Office. He looked so tired. And there was Franklin Delano Roosevelt, with Eleanor by his side, leaning on his crutches.

They were Presidents who led us through times of crisis at the times when we needed a leader most. They gave all they had, and treated the job with the respect it deserved.

Now I was nearly there. I turned the corner to the last, long hall, and stopped short.

There was a light on in the Oval Office.

My heart began to pound. Who was there? It wasn't our current President - I knew he had flown off, even now, to one of his properties. Tomorrow, while another thousand Americans died, he'd be playing golf, as usual.

Now I was at the door. I reached out a trembling hand and eased it open.

The room was dim, lit by the circle of light from the lamp on the desk.

A man was sitting in the darkness. His head was bowed, his face in shadow. Who was he? It was too dark to tell.

"Mr. President?" I asked. "Are you all right?"

"We watched tonight," he said quietly, almost too softly to hear. "All of us, you know."

"You did?" I thought back to the lines of flags, the fanfare, the smirk, the long, long speech. "I'm sorry, sir. Truly I am."

"We watched him use the people's house as his, like some tinpot dictator. Heard him spin out more of his endless string of lies." He sighed.

We were both silent, thinking of those lies.

He stood and began to pace around the room, gesturing as he spoke. "It hurts so to watch him! He cozies up to dictators and insults our allies! He lines his pockets at the expense of the country we love! He fans the flames of hate and surrounds himself with fools and flatterers!"

Then he turned to me, and I could see tears glinting in his eyes. "Every day he breaks this country a little more - he chips away at trust and decency and pulls out the pillars of this country one by one. It feels as if this country, the America we love, is groaning, in terrible pain. Dying, even."

I gulped, and cleared my throat. "I know, Mr. President. We all feel it, whether we realize it or not."

He rubbed his forehead wearily. "But now, now, while the people of America are dying - why won't he protect you? Why has he abandoned you and left you to suffer and die?"

I shook my head. "Sir, I don't think he cares about us. All he cares about is himself. He wants the fame, I guess, and the rewards. Wants to be admired."

He laughed ruefully. "Then he doesn't understand what it means to be president." Walking to the window, he put his hands in his pockets. "It's the hardest job in the world, you know," he mused. "You give and you give, you bleed your life out year by year, you walk out far older than you were when you first sat down at that desk. We take on the weight of the nation, when we step up and raise our hand to take that oath. Even the worst of us understood that."

We both stood silent for a long time. Then he sighed. "We can't help, of course. It's up to you now. God help you all." He turned, and walked wearily toward the door.

Stepping forward, I said, "Mr President, we'll do everything we can. We'll fix it, we really will. We'll rebuild better than ever before. This is OUR house, not his. And it always will be."

He looked back and nodded, and I think I saw the ghost of a smile cross his face. Then he turned and left.

I looked around the room one last time, and then I walked out onto the veranda and made my way onto the lawn. But just before the dream faded I turned back for one more look. The sun was rising, and with the growing light it all seemed to change before my eyes. Now I saw before me that the lawn was smooth and the grass was bright with dew. The gardens were back, too, glowing with flowers, and there were people walking among the rose bushes, people of all colors and cultures, rich and poor, the America of real people, talking and listening and learning to live together again.

I looked back toward the Oval Office, and there, through the window I could see someone new standing at the window, watching the people of America. This was the White House we would claim again. Our house, not his, as it is meant to be, clean and shining, one we can be proud of.