September Song

I wrote this last year, or maybe the year before.
Anyway, it's been sitting in my file waiting to be brought out for the annual memorial services...
not much has changed.
Peace.
J.

SEPTEMBER 11th

It's so strange.
I think I'm past it. That it has become so politicized that I don't want to hear any more. That I can't be shocked by it again. That there are no more tears left.
That time has healed me...

But in this annual week of Media-blitz "memorials", I find myself staring at the pictures again. Carefully listening to the experts explain how and why the buildings collapsed. Reading about the victims. The survivors. The finger-pointing. The rebuilding. Life going on.

In a heartbeat, I am back on that Tuesday morning, watching the early news while changing my infant Son's diaper. Getting ready to wake the older kids for school. Thinking- for just a last few wishful moments- that there has simply been a tragic accident of an amateur student pilot crashing into that Tower.
Then, in a life-altering instant, I see the second plane as the rest of the world does- and the explosion that confirms this as the worst day in our recent history.

I called my Husband at work, where he had no TV or radio, and could not comprehend my prediction that he would soon be asked to cancel the movie premiere he was setting up for that night. I was frustrated to the point of anger that he thought I was over-reacting, but understood that he could not begin to imagine what I was seeing on TV at that moment.
He came home soon after, and was to spend many days here, since no one could find a reason to celebrate anything.

I called my Daughter's school. Who knew where else this was going to go? We wanted her to learn the facts from us, not her 3rd-grader friends. We wanted her to feel safe. We wanted to know she was. We were told to send her anyway- that normalcy and routine were best for the children. Except that it was not normal or routine. We kept her home that day, and had no regrets.

My Mother, Sister and Brother came over- I made coffee. And tried to keep the kids occupied with videos and games while we sat mesmerized by the horror on the TV.

Billy Joel's old song "Miami 2017- Seen the Lights Go Out on Broadway" was racing through my head with such ferocity that I finally found the CD, and we listened to it- and wept:

I've seen the lights go out on Broadway...
.... I've seen the mighty skyline fall....
....I've seen the ruins at my feet....

Always a great song, it's worth a listen now with post-9-11 ears. While you're at it, listen to Paul Simon's "American Tune", too. Not unlike generations before us, there are pieces of music that define our collective experience as Americans- these are only two. I'm sure you know of others- songs that make you catch your breath with sudden awareness of the "true" meaning- and bonds you with everyone else who hears it, and makes you less alone in this world.
And so, we wept.

I personally knew no one who died that day. No one- although there were friends who lost friends. And I think sometimes that my grief is selfish because of that. But I believe that I am grieving for what was before and was lost, as well as what happened and to whom.
I am grieving for the life my children will not have because we no longer live free from the fear of terrorism.

My generation was carefree for so long.
Or blissfully ignorant.
It was the tail end of the Cold War, and we were living in a time when no one in their right mind believed that nuclear capability was necessary for world peace. When we joked about "duck and cover" drills and used our bomb shelters to store lawn furniture and old baby cribs. When the worst we had to fear was Reaganomics, and Herpes. Maybe the Ozone layer was a scary issue, but even AIDS was preventable.
Our fears were not about our daily survival, and yes, we " lived so well so long".

Now we worry about whether it's wise to fly to visit the family in back East. Whether Disneyland has a big target painted on it. And, ashamedly, whether those Middle-Eastern-looking people who just moved in down the street are really who they say they are.
We think about escape routes, and hoard water, batteries and cash. The gas gauge isn't allowed to go below half a tank, and we wouldn't dream of leaving the house without our cell phones.
We use words like "Ground Zero", and "Dirty Bombs" and "Anthrax", and our maudlin jokes belie the underlying realization that anything is possible now. We are learning to be alert, ever-vigilant, and and even have a color-coded scale to help us determine what our anxiety level should be.
Oh, yes, and some us pray a lot harder.

I distinctly remember one thing in those first few moments- before the other kids woke up and the phone started ringing ...when I looked at my only Son, lying in his jammies, freshly changed and smelling like a baby should smell first thing in the morning...
and I thought, "My God, we will go to war over this. I have a Son now."
It was a searing thought so many millions of Mothers have had before me over thousands of years- and I was aware that I had reached a turning point in my womanhood, and was devastated by the reality.

Time heals all wounds, they say. And perhaps this is so.
Perhaps not enough time has passed.
Or maybe it's been an eternity.
I am not healed.