![]() ![]() In the center are a bottle of white wine and two picnic baskets-one with cutlery, plates, and napkins, the other insulated to keep the containers of Chinese takeout inside it warm. I lead Kennedy off the path closer to the water’s edge, where a flannel blanket awaits us on the grass, lit lanterns stationed at each of the four corners. In the spring, the trees here are laden with cherry blossoms, making a thick light-pink wreath around the water, but by this time of year, the blossoms have all fallen, leaving only healthy greenery on their branches-the promise of next year’s bloom. ![]() And then we reach the Tidal Basin, its calm, still waters reflecting the soft orbs of the lampposts that illuminate the circling path around it. We pass the World War II Memorial and the Reflecting Pool across from the glowing warmth of the Lincoln Memorial, weaving between the picture-snapping, map-studying tourists that are a permanent fixture. ![]() We walk through the city beneath the pink-orange dusk sky, hands entwined. ![]()
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