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´╗┐For life goes not ignorant nor tarries with yesterday.

Where were you when on that fearsome day? Until ten years ago, during my lifetime at least, that issue halfway always pertained to the day the shots rang out and killed Kennedy; his presidency the seeming numeral of refreshed and restored hope to a mortals that had been bruised, bloodied and battered by two successive World Wars.

All those lives lost.

All those sons and daughters, fathers, mothers, brothers and sisters.


Some parched alive even.

And, then, a follow at rebirth.
Until shots rang out from a grassy hummock and killed it.

On the day that John F.
Kennedy was killed, ironically, I was the exact identical age and in the exact same merit as my son was on the day that the Twin Towers fell ten years ago.
But all those many years earlier I was sitting and playing with Play Doh on a tiny worn and wooden desk.
How do I remember that? I don’t know.
I do, however, remember the Dominican sisters of Saint Aloysius wrapping us all up, one by one, as some took our hands while others reached for their framework handkerchiefs pulling them out from some secret passive recess below the stomach of their dark and white habits.

Never showing outright emotion, those nuns would quickly, nearly secretly, wipe the tears away from their keep eyes as they called us, one by one, to column up in the sway of the classroom.
I met my sister as the classes piled out into the hallway and we headed out to the parking stack led by another anchorite who had no intention of holding her misuse back.
Her crying kept us all peace in our concern.

And then I remember my mother silently sobbing the full occasion she drove all of us back home.

Back to the domicile that had oil portraits of all four of her offspring and one of President Kennedy himself unresolved in our living room.
As if he were somehow blood of our blood.

John Kennedy took a place of honor alongside her children on the living room walls while the portrait of the Pope hung in a less prestigious recess in the dining one.

And so was the pecking behest in my Irish Catholic household.

Where were you when that powerful day happened? That expired inquiry now gains new meaning as I question any one of us will ever surmise to put Kennedy to that question again.

Terror and transfiguration changed all that.

A hardly over ten years ago we had only unbiased moved here to Virginia from New York.
I didn’t deprivation to come.

My nuptial was in a territory of devolving disrepair and shambles and I knew it was over.
After twenty device years.

I knew practically no one in this town either except my then husband’s finished family.

Who couldn’t exactly ever cotton to the Irish sassy lassy blonde from New York who stole the marrow of their homeboy.

Nope, they could barely tolerate me, bless their hearts.

And if you’re from the South you recognize exactly what the last measure of that sentence means.

I was lonely and scared and had the wonderful ability and opportunity of telling that to my elite partner Kathleen each and every day as we had fallen into that equivalent excellence of daily early morning phone natter routine.

I’d already dropped my son at his kindergarten that September 11 morning and would come home to designate Kath, as usual, so that we could dram together and scheme what I would do when I would finally flourish a coagulate of balls and stop and we’d chatter of what she would do if she blatant to go back to work.
Yup, the usual.

That day though, thing not usual.
Her own husband, Pete, whose obtain profession took him into the Twin Towers daily hadn’t recent in to the City on that day because he’d had an facade breakfast meeting to attend.

So we talked about that.

And how she hoped he might network there and find a new level at his lapsed company.

I can remember that particular phone entitle and the ensuing events if it were yesterday.

I was sitting on my son’s bed and had ‘Good Morning America’ on the television in the background.

We were conversation about nothing, she and I.
Just nothing.
As girlfriends on the phone often do.
And, then, I spied, out of the cranny of my eye, an explosion producing plumes of smoke and a gigantic burn inception to engulf that boon tower.
I sat transfixed to the television.

I stammered and stumbled off the boy’s bed and shakily told Kath to turn on her tv.
I was pacing and I was POSITIVE that some trained plane commander MUST posses had a nucleus assault and tragically, mistakenly, missing master or even his life before slumping in his cockpit and careening into that building.
I mean, what supplementary interpretation could there be? We sat in stunned silence, Kath on her final and I on mine, and all I could hear above Peter Jennings tense voice was our have quiet breathing on the phone.

We spoken nothingness to one another.
This juncture literally.

Until she whispered, “that’s Pete’s building.
” And, then, the unthinkable.

The end plane.

The latter tower.
I don’t remember if we even said goodbye to one another.
All I could conjecture of at that moment was my son.

And as my retain mother had done decades earlier, I gathered my wits and my keys and recognizeable to go and arrest him from his school.
Grab him and hug him recognized as could be.

Our mortals was under attack.
The Pentagon had not yet been hit and Todd Beamer and those heros hadn’t yet “rolled” and yet, intuitively, instinctively, I knew I had to be with my boy.

At the moment that I opened my sway door to leave, another man whose son attended the twin school, pulled up in surpass of my house and motioned to me.

” C’mon El, let’s go!” I jumped in the passenger seat and we didn’t hold to prattle a object to one another.
The pain was palpable.

I was shaking.
She was smoking.
And then I started to cry.

And, then, so did she.

My centre was breaking as I wondered if my prime comrade from colossal school, my core sister Patty, had perished in her help in the best tower.
Patty’s mother is the only ‘grandmother’ my son has ever known.

My own mother had passed well before my schoolboy was born.

His dad’s mother was not involved.

To this day he inactive refers to Patty’s mom as ‘Nana,’ and to this day ‘Nana’ passive sends him a twenty dollar brochure every Christmas.

I wondered if Ava’s husband Michael was in his office in the modern tower that morning.
I am the godmother to their youngeset daughter Paige.

My extended families.

And, then, there were the friends.

I knew halfway the full Cantor pledge trading floor.
After having spent twenty years trading commodities on Wall Street, I knew a collection of family posting buy/sells in that building.
Did they survive? Were they alive? Were their families watching these horrific scenes manoeuvre out the equivalent method I had been watching? I nearly couldn’t divine the worry.

The panic.
The terror.
I couldn’t sound terrorists.

Driving nearly too slowly to the school, we sat, Dina and I stunned, sniffling, reveling, remembering (she’s from New York as well) until we took a left off the leading drag and drove up in front of Broad Bay Manor.
I don’t comprehend why, but we hadn’t expected what we saw.
There, in the parking stack was a throng of parents waiting for their tiny issue too.
Waiting in a car train that snaked around the whole building.

All these parents coming to regain their precious ones.

We were all doing the identical device that my keep mother had done all those many years ago when innocence shattered shook this country.

I look around for my son.

I notice the glaring miserable of the sky.

The sun lustrous so alert it molest my eyes.

The air so laconic and clean, not yet filled with the coming dread.

It didn’t parallel up, the events I’d just witnessed and the partly Divine perfection of the day.

It didn’t go together.
Maybe it wasn’t real? Maybe it didn’t materialize after all? Maybe I would wake up and torpid be in a crappy matrimonial but wouldn’t posses to wonder if people I knew and loved had died without warning.
And it was then, waiting in what seemed to be an interminable car line, that all of a sudden a song from Grayson’s infancy began to play, over and over and over again in my head.

See, my son was not a behalf sleeper as a bitty baby.

I was forced to fashion some merit of soothing and nightly ritual and style to be able to lull him into any merit of slumber, a ritual that once worked through also worked well into his toddler years.

A quota of that ritual was playing the duplicate orchestration cassette to and for him night after night after night.

For years and years and years.

His feeling was Pavlovian.

Apparently mine was imprinted.

Because on that mellifluous cassette was a poem put to song, the lyrics or lines written by the peaceful, abstract and otherworldly poet Kahlil Gibran.

The words of that song now stuck singing out in my master as if they were being piped in by a Mothership yachting somewhere far, far in the heavens above.

I couldn’t shamble them.
I couldn’t delay them.
Louder and louder.
Competing with my extraordinary kernel trying to secure my whole attention.

‘Your progeny are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you, And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.
” We inch up a grain closer to the exit door of the school.
I believe I hear Dina chat entity about the radio recounting relatives jumping from the upper floors of the towers.

They are jumping to their deaths, election that sliver of hope of survival as opposed to surely perishing by fire.

People are jumping.
They are production choices about the method in which they will, in all likelihood, die.

Others on the streets below patrol unimaginable horror.
I sketch these images in my mind’s eye but can’t concentrate because that music, those poetic conversation from Kibran hold competing.
They effectively inundate the outer din.

“You may donate them your love but not your thoughts, For they hold their own thoughts.

You may accommodation their bodies but not their souls, For their souls dwell in the domicile of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not uncivilized nor tarries with yesterday.

” I see him.
I finally see him.
My boy.

His minor blonde commander pops up every once in awhile bobbing between the two taller boys that are sandwiching him.
He looks so happy.

He looks so little.

He looks around.

And he sees me.

And he waves.

Like infrequently boys who see their mother’s in sway of them often do.
And I signal back.
Although I can’t really make him out now supplementary than a wavy synopsis since the tears in my eyes, tears of gratitude, tears of rapture at seeing him, tears of heartbreaking sadness and grief all converge and well up and prohibit me from really seeing anything, at all, clearly.

I touch like I might not be able to see anything clearly ever again.

The car continues to creep a nibble further and the epiphany occurs.

And it sounds reasonable like the last lines of that Kibran poem: “You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the orbit of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go fleet and far.
Let your bending in the archer’s workman be for gladness; For even as He loves the bodkin that flies, so He loves furthermore the kowtow that is stable.

” Only love survives.

And Patty did too.
After the birth of her third adolescent and unable to falter that incubation weight, she’d been attending a Weight Watchers meeting in diminish Manhattan when the tragedies took place.

She remembers leaving the weigh in to run back to her office because she’d left her purse there.

A few feet out that Weight Watcher’s door some stranger rancid her around and told her to “run for her life.

” She did.

And was safe.

Only feelings survives.

And Michael did too.
He, like Kathleen’s husband Peter, had a meeting face his office that morning and although he’d past back to the towers, he’d been able to gain out of Manhattan and eventually make it home safely as well.
Only affection survives.

The Cantor Fitzgerald traders did not.

Thousands of responders did not.

All those different slant passengers did not.

“For even as He loves the thorn that flies, so He loves moreover the kowtow that is stable.

” Because, only heart survives.

Because our spirits are inextinguishable.

The sadness, the loss, the hunger for stillness entrust decline and die.

Love and our spirits survive.

That is not a prayer.
It is a promise.

Where were you on that terrible day? Where was I? No, I wasn’t talking to Kathleen on the phone or watching Peter Jennings on tv.
I wasn’t with Dina driving down Great Neck Road or choosing up my oblivious son from school.
I wasn’t worrying and wondering about Patty, Peter, Michael or all the many others I knew working inside those two towers.

I was erudition firsthand that only affection survives and that our spirits are inextinguishable.

I can only hope that many, many, many others own wise that twin same sermon since that equivalent day as well.
Because armed with that knowledge, rebirth can never ever be shot and killed again.



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