It’s September 11th.
I live in New York City.
I feel like I should have something to say.
Something about the strength of the city or the power of its people.
Something about remembrance and mourning, about peace and hope.
Something about the men in uniforms and FDNY t-shirts who gathered around a tree at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden today while our kids were running through the grass and we were talking about schools.
Something about the conversations I’ve had with Manchild about the time when the airplanes flew into the buildings and it was so sad for everyone in the country.
Something about how difficult it is to feel that first crispness of fall and see the bright blue sky and not think, “It was just like this on that day.”
Something about the lights that stand where the buildings stood to remind us.
But I don’t. I don’t have anything to say.
I wasn’t there. I didn’t know anyone in those buildings.
I watched it on tv and mourned with the rest of the country. I dreamt about planes crashing and buildings falling. I thought I would never forget.
And I haven’t forgotten. But September 11th is not a day to celebrate. It’s not a day we take off of work or go on picnics for. There are no parties for this occasion.
It’s a day of remembrance. A day of solemnity. A day to stand and reflect. Silently. Because there are no words.