Beautiful Day

It’s September 11, again.  Another beautiful day.  Here in Texas the breeze is cool on my back porch and I am delighted to sit and feel the soft wind on me, and breathe, breathe and say ‘thank you’. But it is September 11.  I run through my various emails from several writers’ and blog sites, and, inevitably, there are promos to ‘come read my reflections on this anniversary’.  And I scroll down, avoiding the latest memorial.

It is too soon. Eleven years on and it is too soon. The first anniversary I watched the TV memorial held at Ground Zero and cried, really cried.  I listened for the name of my friend, Mary Yolanda Dowling, but she must have been read out during a commercial break.

I looked out on the mourners when the cameras panned the crowd, still raw a year on.  I listened for the accents of my youth, the voices I could not recognize as accents until we moved across the country and were told we were the ones with the funny voices.

But I pass them by now. Pass by the television remembrances, fewer now. I cannot live there. Other tragedies are current. Other outrages take up space in my allotment for mourning. I am filled up.

I watch History Channel shows, so many dedicated to battles and tragedies and outrages against our common humanity.  My family teases me that I am fascinated with ‘murder shows’ and mysteries.  And I am.  I continue to be puzzled at how capable we, people, that is, are of destroying life. I don’t understand.

I don't.