In Memoriam
The flags flew at half mast, even though it was the Fourth of July.
The news had hit the Washington Press Corps that morning. They had been awoken en masse by their White House contacts, their anonymous sources, all leaking like a sieve. The reporters picked up their phones, opened their emails, expecting something big. An appointment to a vital positionl, or major policy initiative. The more cynical among them expect a new scandal or another war.
What they got was much, much worse.
The rumors naturally hit the internet with startling speed. The panic started. Followed by calm voices calling for calm, voices that were swiftly overwhelmed. Overwhelmed both by the power of panic and the fact that the rumors were being corroborated, not contradicted.
By lunchtime, a frazzled White House Press Secretary confirmed the rumors, stunning the nation. The reporter’s faces fell. For once they had all hoped their stories were wrong. They felt the hole in their hearts open.
In the Oval Office, the President hung up the phone, following a solemn call with the President of Ecuador.
The President fumed. Of all the times for this to happen, it had to happen now. In their term, on their watch. Right in the middle of some very delicate negotiations. And on the Fourth of July of all days. Even an amateur could see how bad the optics were, even if it wasn’t entirely the President’s fault. And the President was no amateur.
Yet the anger by the Commander in Chief was not solely political. It was also the anger of someone who has lost something. Something that has been around for the President’s entire life. A key institution, part of political life for lifetimes, had been lost. Fate seemed to have struck at America, right at the heart. The grief and shock felt by the common citizen was shared by their President.
With a calm, commanding, tone the President requested the plans first assembled by Jimmy Carter. Plan: Tortuga. They began to make some calls. It was a long day.
Where were you when you heard the news?
A question that had been asked after Pearl Harbor, after the Assasination of JFK, after 9/11. A question that was asked now.
“I had just woken up from sleeping in, and opened the news app.”
“I was shopping.”
“My daughter started crying and I asked her what happened.”
Reflection soon followed. What did it mean? Was there any significance to the date of the death? Why had this happened now? Of course, there would never have been a good time for this, but this moment seemed particularly hurtful.
Some, naturally, attempted to find meaning. Some pinned the blame on the President, as they had feared. It was a result of the amoral policies and criminal activities of the administration. Some alleged actual negligence on the part of the White House, and demanded full investigations. Others saw the hand of god in death.
Others took a broader view. This was symbolic of the decline of the United States of America as a whole. A reflection of a nation slouching towards Bethlehem, an empire in decline. It was fitting. He had witnessed America as it was taking its first steps towards being a global power. Indeed he had only ever come to Washington as a result of America’s influence abroad. He had seen it rise to great heights, and then decline. And now he was gone. Would the United States soon follow?
The truth of the matter was far more simple. He was old. He had had lived a long and fruitful life. He had wandered the White House for years. He had delighted diplomats and impressed politicians of all stripes. He had fathered many children. He had brought joy to many, but he had been doing it for a very long time.
In death, he commanded the respect he had earned in life. He lay in state, visited by thousands in a coffin procured by the government. The flags were lowered across the country. There was talk of burial in Arlington, he was after all a member of the United States Navy. But in the end he was to be buried where he had lived, on the grounds of the White House.
The funeral was attended by a variety of dignitaries. Bemused foreign nations observed the proceedings. The President of Ecuador attended in person.
All of the living former Presidents made the journey to Washington to see him off. But they represented only a minority of those who had known him, who had lived with them. Even the oldest among them had not even been born when he arrived.
Sailor Bill had outlived more than a dozen Presidents. Countless Senators and Representatives had come and gone under his watch. The Supreme Court had completely changed, not just in composition but in location. The only things longer older than Sailor Bill were the White House and Congress, and the parties that fought for control of things. He was a bedrock of Washington.
And he was gone.
No one lives forever.
Not even tortoises.