I notice that I still only discuss September 11th with people that were here that day. I'm not sure why.
I know that I deal with anger, or whatever it's actually masking, when I see tourists taking pictures in front of the hole, or the vendors who are selling books with pictures of the destruction, or the protesters using the location as a "provocative" spot to bring their message.
September 11th sneaks into my consciousness whenever I see a sky as gloriously blue as the one that morning or pass the bus stop in front of St. Vincent's, remembering it covered with pictures of the missing, when I see the remains of a melted candle in the cracks of a city sidewalk., when I see a face in a crowd, moving forward, but numb.
I still won't watch footage of the impacts or the jumpers; I avert my eyes from images from the day.
What is gone is the smell that lingered from the first year -- smoky, burnt, electrical. What remains is me, getting up and trying to make a life here, in spite of . . .
I know that I deal with anger, or whatever it's actually masking, when I see tourists taking pictures in front of the hole, or the vendors who are selling books with pictures of the destruction, or the protesters using the location as a "provocative" spot to bring their message.
September 11th sneaks into my consciousness whenever I see a sky as gloriously blue as the one that morning or pass the bus stop in front of St. Vincent's, remembering it covered with pictures of the missing, when I see the remains of a melted candle in the cracks of a city sidewalk., when I see a face in a crowd, moving forward, but numb.
I still won't watch footage of the impacts or the jumpers; I avert my eyes from images from the day.
What is gone is the smell that lingered from the first year -- smoky, burnt, electrical. What remains is me, getting up and trying to make a life here, in spite of . . .
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