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.