My father used to talk about a recurring dream he had in which he was walking into a beautiful white building with grand columns, knowing that it was his new home. When he was elected president, he said the image finally made sense to him. Once in the White House, he never had the dream again.
He had a reverence and a love for America that burned in his eyes when he looked at the flag, that bled into his words when he spoke to the country. Selfishly, I used to feel slighted by that love. I referred sometimes to my “sibling rivalry” with America.