Beneath the January Snow

Four Years Ago: January 6, 2021

The boy was eight. The world felt safe, where wrongs could be righted, and adults always knew best. Until that day.

He clutched his dad’s hand as the television flickered with images of the Capitol under siege. The American flag, the same one that fluttered outside his school on sunny mornings, was everywhere. But it wasn’t the same. These flags weren’t about unity or hope. They were fists, stomping boots, and snarling faces. One man carried it like a weapon, a spear of anger tearing through the heart of something sacred.

“Daddy, why are they so mad?” his small voice trembled.

His father didn’t answer. He just knelt down and wrapped him in his arms, blocking the screen from view. But it was too late. The boy had seen everything—the broken glass, the man in a furry hat with horns shouting, the noose swaying like a shadow of a nightmare.

The violence played out like a terrible dream. A man swung a flagpole at officers, the metal clanging against their shields. Another rioter hurled a fire extinguisher, striking a helmeted head. The boy watched people trample barricades, their boots grinding the fallen underfoot. Smoke curled into the air, and the sound of chants morphed into guttural roars. Glass shattered again and again, shards catching the light like jagged stars. The camera panned to a noose hanging stark against the blue-gray sky, and the boy froze. It looked like something from a history book—but it wasn’t history. It was now.

He didn’t understand the words they screamed—words about fraud and freedom, liberty and lies. But he understood the rage. It made him feel small, like the world was shaking beneath his tiny feet. The flag on the screen… it wasn’t his flag. Not anymore.

That night, the boy lay awake, staring at the little flag on his bedside table. It felt different now, like a broken promise. He wondered if it could ever mean what it used to—or if it was lost forever.

Today: January 6, 2025

He’s twelve now. The memory is sharper, etched into him like a scar. But today, he’s not watching from behind a screen. Today, he’s here.

The Capitol is heavily fenced, its perimeter guarded by silent officers in heavy coats, their breath visible in the frigid air. Snow falls steadily, blanketing the ground in a quiet white. The boy stands with a crowd just beyond the barriers, holding the little flag from his room. Its edges are frayed, but it remains upright in his hands. Around him, others gather—some mourning, some protesting, some simply standing in silence. He feels the weight of it all, heavier than he imagined.

He glances at the flag, the frayed edges fluttering in the cold wind. It still feels small in his hands, but not as powerless as before. He imagines what it could mean—not just for him, but for everyone standing around him.

A woman near him places a hand over her heart, whispering, “Never again.” The boy glances at her, then at a nearby sign held high above the crowd: “Democracy Endures.” He steps closer to the fence, his boots crunching in the snow. Beyond the barricades, the Capitol dome rises into the gray sky, its marble steps glistening faintly beneath layers of ice and frost. The snow seems to blur reality, and for a moment, it’s as if the past is unfolding in front of him.

Figures of rioters emerge like ghosts through the falling flakes, their shouts muffled but persistent. A man smashes a window with a fire extinguisher, shards of glass raining onto the ground. Another waves the American flag, but not with pride—it’s clutched like a weapon, striking at unseen enemies. The noose hangs again, swaying faintly in the snowy haze, a specter of the violence etched in his memory. The boy shivers as the cold seems to deepen, the ghostly cries blending with the wind.

“It’s not real,” he whispers to himself, shaking his head. But the images linger, as sharp and vivid as they were four years ago.

He blinks, and the vision fades, but the weight of it lingers. He looks down at the flag in his hands, gripping it tighter. He thinks of the history he learned in school—of those who fought to protect what it stands for. He wonders if, one day, it could stand for that again.

Nearby, someone kneels to lay flowers by the barricade. Another raises a sign: “Never Again.” The boy tightens his grip on the flag. It doesn’t feel as small as it once did.

He looks up at the dome, gleaming faintly through the swirling snow. The noose is gone. The windows are whole. But the shadow lingers, stretching across the years, across the fence, across his heart. He takes a deep breath and lifts the flag high, his arm trembling.

“It’s still ours,” he whispers, his words almost lost in the snow-muted air. But he says it again, louder this time. “It’s still ours!”

People turn to look at him. Some nod, some smile. A man places a hand on his shoulder, and the boy feels a surge of something unfamiliar: strength. Not from the flag, but from the people who stand with him.

The snow catches on the little flag as it flutters, its fabric speckled with white against the stark gray sky. For the first time in four years, he doesn’t see it as broken. He sees it as unyielding. He looks at the dome one last time and whispers to himself, "One day, it will mean everything again." And for the first time, he believes it.