To salvage the tiniest shred of mental health that we had left we finally escaped to the District for the weekend. The scent of concrete, rusty water, and track dust that rushes up warmly, curling its way along the path of Metro escalators, is the only air I need to breathe. Then I am home. Then I am whole. Then I have place and I have destination and I have hope. Sometimes the light at the end of the tunnel is the train speeding towards us promising to take us anywhere we want to go.