Every year for the last 13 years...this week....and that DATE, always seems to sneak up on me. I think I kid myself that somehow Ive forgotten some or part if it..but I havent. I was living there...in NYC, at the time of the attacks. I remember every moment of that day. I remember the acrid smell of the burning steel, I remember the chaos, confusion, and fear, I remember running to pick up my friends son from school after the second plane hit the second tower; and then taking him to our home and not knowing what I should say to him because I was afraid of frightening him even more, I remember all the paper...so many sheets of paper, and partial sheets of paper..scorched and singed blowing everywhere.. I remember the huge thick clouds of toxic smoke rising from lower Manhattan...blowing across the East River into Brooklyn, I remember sirens, so many sirens... seemingly coming from ever direction, I remember everyone from our small brownstone huddled in front of our television in shock or sobbing quietly...or both.. and trying to figure out what was happening, I remember the first plane, the second plane, the plane that hit the Pentagon and the last plane that hit the ground in rural Pennsylvania. But mostly? I remember the day after. Seeing all the hospital and ER personnel waiting futilely outside theyre respective units for the hundreds of injured people that were supposed to come flooding in at any minute, but whom never arrived. I remember there were fighter jets criss-crossing the skys, tanks in the streets, and military personnel everywhere...sent to protect us, but the enemy at this point was far away huddled somewhere on another continent celebrating, or they were already dead; their remains and ashes sickeningly mixed among those of their innocent victims; our courageous heroes and loved ones. But the one image I can never erase from my mind is walking slowly. from place to place, almost as if in some kind of apocalyptic nightmare, and seeing homemade flyers on every tree and building surface, throughout every neighbourhood I ventured into in the days, weeks, and months following that horrific day. They all said things like; MISSING or have you seen me? each flyer baring the photograph of someones father, mother, husband, wife, sister, brother, son, daughter, or friend. The faces looking back at me from all those thousands of flyers were all beaming and smiling happily, because the photos were all taken of them on much happier days in the past...taken on days where the future seemed bright and full of promise. Now I stood before images of these people whom I already knew never came home the night before, and whom I knew in my heart, would would never, ever, be seen or heard from again. For me, there is no escape from these memories...I still find myself unable to control my emotions every year around the time of this anniversary. So Ive decided to stop trying to pretend Im not still scarred by the events of that day, but rather I try to just quietly acknowledge them and let everything Im feeling just come out. I watch the documentaries about the survivors and those whos loved ones died. I cry. I mourn. And then the day after Sept.11th I move on. In this small solitary private way Im feel Im honouring the victims and the heroes of that day. Im still alive, its only one really hard day every year...13 years later...and honestly, Im not so sure that its such a bad thing because I want to make sure I never forget.
Posted on: Tue, 09 Sep 2014 18:41:01 +0000
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