Writing and the Revolution

It’s a weekend morning and I’m sitting in a quiet corner of the W Hotel lounge in Hoboken, writing in my journal and drinking coffee. This nook of the contemporary-style lounge has windows rounded in design and they overlook the Hudson River and Manhattan skyline.

A little girl, maybe four years old, comes bounding into the space.

“I can see how this could be a rocket ship,” a man’s voice says from behind her.

Her father comes into view and they take seats across from each other at a little table next to me.

“I’ll be the navigator,” he says. “Do you know what a navigator is?”

She looks up eagerly for an explanation and he tells her. Now she has an air of authority and sits up in her chair. Clearly she’s figured out this is the seat of the person in charge.

They begin to play, to ride in what she has deemed her vessel, when other family members arrive — mom, grandma and grandpa.

“Everybody come on my rocket ship,” she says. As they sit, she adds, “I can take you somewhere fast. Where do you want to go?”

“Washington, D.C.”

“Pluto.”

“OK, we’ll go to these places,” the girl says. “Mommy, then it’s your turn.”