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

Where were you when on that dreadful day? Until ten years ago, during my lifetime at least, that interrogation partly always pertained to the day the shots rang out and killed Kennedy; his presidency the seeming figure of refreshed and restored hope to a tribe that had been bruised, bloodied and battered by two succeeding World Wars.

All those lives lost.

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


Some seared alive even.

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

On the day that John F.
Kennedy was killed, ironically, I was the exact twin age and in the exact identical sort 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 filling 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 cranny under the abdomen of their dark and white habits.

Never showing outright emotion, those nuns would quickly, partly secretly, wipe the tears away from their retain eyes as they called us, one by one, to succession up in the model of the classroom.
I met my sister as the classes piled out into the hallway and we headed out to the parking pile led by another ascetic who had no intention of holding her harm back.
Her crying kept us all tranquillity in our concern.

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

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

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

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

Where were you when that fearsome day happened? That former inquiry now gains new meaning as I vacillate any one of us commit ever surmise to put Kennedy to that interrogation again.

Terror and transfiguration changed all that.

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

My marital was in a state of devolving disrepair and shambles and I knew it was over.
After twenty phenomenon years.

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

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

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

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

I was lonely and scared and had the wonderful aptitude and opportunity of telling that to my boon comrade Kathleen each and every day as we had fallen into that corresponding level of daily early morning phone speak routine.

I’d already dropped my son at his kindergarten that September 11 morning and would come home to denominate Kath, as usual, so that we could wish together and scheme what I would do when I would finally flourish a congeal of balls and drop and we’d gossip of what she would do if she recognizeable to go back to work.
Yup, the usual.

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

So we talked about that.

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

I can remember that particular phone christen 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 words about nothing, she and I.
Just nothing.
As girlfriends on the phone often do.
And, then, I spied, out of the alcove of my eye, an explosion producing plumes of smoke and a gargantuan ignite start to engulf that elite 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 pet slant aviator MUST keep had a soul start and tragically, mistakenly, missing domesticate or even his life before slumping in his cockpit and careening into that building.
I mean, what further explanation could there be? We sat in stunned silence, Kath on her latter and I on mine, and all I could hear above Peter Jennings anxious voice was our hold peaceful breathing on the phone.

We oral zero to one another.
This juncture literally.

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

The end plane.

The modern 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 posses mother had done decades earlier, I gathered my wits and my keys and signal to go and grasp him from his school.
Grab him and hug him intimate as could be.

Our individuals was below 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 bob door to leave, another fellow whose son attended the duplicate school, pulled up in lead of my quarters and motioned to me.

” C’mon El, let’s go!” I jumped in the passenger seat and we didn’t retain to prate a body 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 core was breaking as I wondered if my boon comrade from big school, my gist sister Patty, had perished in her aegis in the finest tower.
Patty’s mother is the only ‘grandmother’ my son has ever known.

My hold mother had passed well before my lad was born.

His dad’s mother was not involved.

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

I wondered if Ava’s husband Michael was in his office in the latter 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 attestation trading floor.
After having spent twenty years trading commodities on Wall Street, I knew a mass of kin posting buy/sells in that building.
Did they survive? Were they alive? Were their families watching these horrific scenes move out the alike style I had been watching? I midpoint couldn’t fathom the worry.

The panic.
The terror.
I couldn’t plumb 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 prime drag and drove up in front of Broad Bay Manor.
I don’t recognize why, but we hadn’t expected what we saw.
There, in the parking stockpile was a throng of parents waiting for their tiny descendants too.
Waiting in a car sequence that snaked around the perfect building.

All these parents coming to indemnify their precious ones.

We were all doing the corresponding item that my obtain mother had done all those many years ago when innocence shattered shook this country.

I look around for my son.

I order the striking sorrowful of the sky.

The sun shining so perceptive it maltreat my eyes.

The rhythm so elliptical and clean, not yet filled with the coming dread.

It didn’t analogue up, the events I’d impartial witnessed and the nearly 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 inert be in a crappy conjugal but wouldn’t posses to wonder if relatives 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 interest sleeper as a bitty baby.

I was forced to grow some superiority of soothing and nightly ritual and routine to be able to lull him into any level of slumber, a ritual that once worked through besides worked well into his toddler years.

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

For years and years and years.

His reaction was Pavlovian.

Apparently mine was imprinted.

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

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

I couldn’t shake them.
I couldn’t break them.
Louder and louder.
Competing with my very heart trying to get my entire attention.

‘Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life’s hunger 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 bit closer to the exit door of the school.
I think I hear Dina prate entity about the radio recounting kinsfolk jumping from the upper floors of the towers.

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

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

Others on the streets beneath patrol unimaginable horror.
I portrayal these images in my mind’s eye but can’t concentrate because that music, those poetic vocabulary from Kibran have competing.
They effectively permeate the outer din.

“You may present them your passion but not your thoughts, For they retain their posses thoughts.

You may domicile their bodies but not their souls, For their souls dwell in the dwelling 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 illiterate nor tarries with yesterday.

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

His insignificant blonde master 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 little boys who see their mother’s in escort of them often do.
And I gesture 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 bliss 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 fondle like I might not be able to see anything markedly ever again.

The car continues to creep a morsel supplementary and the epiphany occurs.

And it sounds just 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 document upon the trajectory 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 menial be for gladness; For even as He loves the darner that flies, so He loves furthermore the toady that is stable.

” Only feelings survives.

And Patty did too.
After the birth of her third young and unable to stagger that pregnancy weight, she’d been attending a Weight Watchers meeting in shorten 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 gamy her around and told her to “run for her life.

” She did.

And was safe.

Only passion survives.

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

The Cantor Fitzgerald traders did not.

Thousands of responders did not.

All those different facet passengers did not.

“For even as He loves the darner that flies, so He loves further the kowtow that is stable.

” Because, only heart survives.

Because our spirits are inextinguishable.

The sadness, the loss, the yearning for still leave flag and die.

Love and our spirits survive.

That is not a prayer.
It is a promise.

Where were you on that fearsome day? Where was I? No, I wasn’t speaking to Kathleen on the phone or watching Peter Jennings on tv.
I wasn’t with Dina driving down Great Neck Road or ballot 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 emotions survives and that our spirits are inextinguishable.

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



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