“O say does that star-spangled banner yet wave,” I mouth the words, watching the American flag being raised over the Olympic Park. It’s February in southern Russia but the evening’s cool rain feels unexpectedly welcome. It’s enchanting. What’s more, it is grounding me in the moment. I close my eyes. Remember. The small drops of water give tangibility to the night. Something I can touch. Something to distinguish this night from all other nights. To distinguish it from a dream. “O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.”

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