It was six days since the shooting.
Six days since those beautiful children, those dedicated teachers were blasted into oblivion.
Six days since the country was shocked into an angry stupor.
Six days since the president declared to the country that enough was enough.
Six days since Joe called for action.
Six days in which 'do something', became the background mantra to which the country stumbled on. A drum beat, tentatively gaining traction.
Six days on and the President and First Lady were preparing to console the distraught families.
The First Couple were quiet at breakfast. The usual chatter suspended amid aching hearts and tired bodies. This morning the meal was served to them. That in itself was unusual. Normally at breakfast they trundled along themselves, just the two of them. Safe in the knowledge that no staff would interrupt them and they could be themselves in their robes or just in their pajamas. Another favourite, especially of Joe's was when Jill wandered around the white house kitchen dressed just in his shirt. He loved nothing more than to watch her lithe body, her toned legs and barely covered ass as she reached towards a cupboard or leaned over to rummage in a drawer.
Those were special moments now, to be prized and treasured. Intimate, personal moments amid the constant barrage of cameras and questions and demands. Moments when they could just be totally content in their private bubble. When they could dare to think that they were just like any other of the millions of working couples across the country, joining in the hum drum normalcy of their morning routines. Enjoying a cup of coffee together. Robbing a slice of toast. Sharing a kiss, a touch, a gentle caress, a tender itimacy. Joe loved the freedom to wander around in his t-shirt and gym shorts, or shirt and trousers, clothes untucked and tieless. It was a deal they had made with the staff in the early days of the Administration when everything was so new and constrained and stuffy. It served them well and allowed for at least a film of normality.
It was doubly unusual for them to be at the White House on a Sunday morning. Weekends were usually spent at home in Delaware or at Camp David if there was a family event. Today was different on so many levels. The pall that hung over the entire nation seemed to seep into every corner of the White House. Shock and grief permeated everything but with it too a sense of unease, dissatisfaction, and suspended energy. It was like the country was holding its breath, hoping that this time it would be different. This time the loss of innocence wouldn't be in vain. It couldn't be. Not again. Something would happen. Something had to happen.
Against this backdrop, this palpable sense of urgency, of unease, the First Couple prepared to mourn the dead, to grieve with the bereaved. In the darkness of the long night previous, they held each other close in wakefulness and sleep, in slumber and through dreams. Disturbed dreams. Dreams of darkness and despair. Dreams of fear, empathy, solidarity, of loss. Dreams of hope. Dreams of triumph over travail. When Joe woke at 3.45 am Jill's arm was wrapped around his waist, she was as close as she could possibly be to him, legs entwined, head on his chest, hand on his waist, the other resting over his heart, moving gently with the rhythm of his breathing. He slipped back to sleep, gently caressing her hair, thanking God for the road that led to finding her. That torturous road through darkness and demons. The road that ended in the brightness shining from her being with which she illuminated his life, breathed beauty and goodness, love and joy into the empty dark husk of his soul. When Jill woke at 4.52 am Joe was restless. She lay there without moving. His murmured words just out of her reach, not fully succeeding in living in the air-filled world of reality, unable to survive the birth from the darkness of his troubled mind to the light now filling their room.
