Remembering, Differently...

Over the years I have been connected to family and friends that are firefighters, EMT's, doctors, police officers, military personnel, business people, members of the airline industry, and of many other professions and walks of life, that were all affected, directly, indirectly, and/or emotionally by the events of September 11, 2001. Each year I remember where I was and what I was doing as if it were yesterday, as do most of you. With this short story I have tried to capture the sentiment of the day, drawing on the feelings, emotions, and experiences that many of you have shared with me over the years while attempting to express the collective in one anecdote. I know that neither I, nor anyone else, I imagine, will ever be able to fully capture the gravity of what transpired that day in written words. These words are mine, and they are for you on this day of remembrance. Thank you for letting me share.

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            A light breeze stirred the wind chimes that hung just outside the kitchen window, causing their ring to echo through the otherwise silent September morning. His coffee, once piping hot, now sat untouched in the mug on the counter next to the sink. He wanted to do something. Say something. Call someone. Instead he just sat there, confused and helpless, staring at the cheap, plastic snow globe in front of him. Giving it a shake allowed him to watch the tiny white particles slowly sink in the agitated water until they settled at the base of the tiny replica of the World Trade Center occupying the base of the dime-store trinket.

            He repeated the action close to fifty times before he finally took a sip of his coffee and cringed at the frigid bitterness as it passed across his tongue. After shaking the old souvenir one more time, he rose, dumped out the cold coffee and popped another K-Cup into the brewer. Within seconds, a steaming replacement dose of caffeine poured into his mug and, this time, it would be consumed long before it cooled. 

            Stepping out on the deck gave him a chill. Morning dew still covered the handrails and a mist rose from the lake’s waters beyond. The breeze had picked up and tiny waves began to gently lap the shore. Though he felt silly wearing a sweater this early in September, he had nonetheless donned his favorite cable-knit and ventured out into the fifty-two degree morning to make the short trek out to the end of the pier. Once there, he set his coffee down on the arm of one of the Adirondack chairs that rested there and turned his attention to the single rose he had been holding in his other hand. One by one, he stripped the flower down to its stem and dropped each petal into the water. It was a ritual he had repeated every September 11^th for the last five years, continuing the ritual that they had repeated together for the five years before his wife had gone to work.

            Neither could really remember how or why they had chosen that act as their silent private memorial. Perhaps it was simply because they had, in order to save the delicate flora from an early September frost, picked some roses from their front garden the evening before the attack and the flowers just happened to be sitting in the vase on the counter that morning. Whatever the reason, it was their way of remembering.

            Truth be told, neither of them had known anyone directly involved with the tragedy. While they had some friends and/or family who lived and worked in New York, and knew others who regularly flew in an out of Kennedy Airport, none, thankfully, had been in the thick of the devastation. Like the bulk of the nation, though, they too felt the overwhelming sense of loss and grief that struck the country like a tsunami. However, they also felt the same sense of shame and survivor’s guilt shared by many in sympathy for those that had lost so much more than they had. There would never be words to console, sentiments to express, or actions to take that would ever assuage the pain caused by the violent actions on that day. So, each year, they walked out on their pier and solemnly dropped rose petals into the water where they would peacefully float away on the morning tide.

            Once he had dropped the last of the bud’s petals, he sat down in his chair and sipped his coffee. Staring out at the nothingness of the watery expanse of Lake Ontario that stretched out before him, he pondered his existence. It bothered him, the fact that there were things he couldn’t understand. His analytical mind was constantly searching for answers to everything. When the unstoppable force of his determination to solve every riddle met the immovable object that comprised the senselessness of that day, his brain went numb.

            Closing his eyes and allowing the cool, late summer breeze pass over him somehow brought him a bit of clarity. There was a lesson to be learned in everything. What had happened, though it didn’t affect him directly, stirred in him feelings of empathy, compassion and love for those who suffered so greatly. It bestowed upon him a sense of patriotism and respect not only for his country, but for his countrymen. Perhaps most importantly it instilled him a deep gratefulness, not only for those men and women that served, protected, and gave their lives that day, but for those gifts in his own life that he had previously taken for granted. It was one of those gifts that stirred him from his contemplation.

            “Daddy?” his four year old daughter called from the open sliding door to the kitchen. He rose and walked the length of the pier back to the deck. Her grin grew larger which each of his steps.

            “Morning Daddy!” she said gleefully as he scooped her up and carried her back inside.

            “Morning pumpkin,” he replied she as she squeezed him tightly. After setting her down gently, he readied a bowl of cereal and some-cut up fruit for her breakfast. The phone rang just as he set the bowl in front of his child.

            “Hey,” he answered.

           

            “I love you,” his wife said simply.

            “I love you, too.” There was nothing else to say.

[This story is dedicated to all those affected by the events of September 11, 2001. If nothing else, this story is meant to remind us, regardless of how affected , to never forget, and to never take our lives for granted.]

© J.J. Goodman 2012. All rights reserved.