I wonder if our interest in
our grief over
our memory and
our commemoration of
unlike the people of Syria,
Israel and Palenstine,
Iraq, and other embattled countries
who undergo military and terrorist violence and fear and injury and death
all the time —
for Americans currently living, September 11th remains a unique event.
It is for me too: link
Emily called in the middle of that astonishing day and introduced a set of concrete and weighty nouns that consolidated the horror and made it more terrifying: “Steve,” “new job,” “two weeks,” “New York,” and — a code we suddenly knew the definition of — “Cantor Fitzgerald.”
And then, after Emily’s call, I am standing in front of our blue couch, on which are piles of clean laundry, waiting for folding. I hold a towel, a pillowcase, and I stare at their angles and wonder why folding matters.
Many of us, though not all, did become happy again, didn’t we?