You Are Not Forgotten

11 years later, and still we hurt, still we are angry. But in our emotions, we start to forget the source of them. NEVER FORGET THE MEN AND WOMEN WHO WERE KILLED ON SEPTEMBER 11, 2001.

The day is dawning bright, brilliant, not a cloud in the sky. The air feels clean, a strange occurrence in New York City. The streets are busy, a whirl of flying cars and horns. She looks out at her home town from the flat in the middle of the apartment complex, and it seems to her, so separate from the rush, that the world moves on at its usual pace with barely a pause to remember.

She turns and grabs her coat as she leaves her apartment, heading down and out onto the busy streets. People pass by her with barely a glance, ignoring the red, white, and blue necklace that adorns her throat. They all have places to go, people to meet, things to do, and she wonders if they even know what day it is.

Still she walks down through the streets of New York, her feet pounding a path well-known, well-worn. The way is familiar, natural, as easy to walk as it is to breathe. She wonders why it should be so effortless.

And finally, her path ends, and she stands still, the way forward obstructed by the most beautiful of sights, the ugliest of places. A low, dark marble wall blocks her way, the polished top gleaming in the light of the bright sun. She lifts a gentle hand, her nerves beginning to quiver, and lets her fingers drift over the engravings atop the marble, the wounds in such strong stone that are linear, important. The cuts that form 2,819 names.

And as they usually do, as they have for such a long while, her fingers pause over one name, so strong and simple and to anyone else, blending with the rest. But this name stands out to her, will always stand out. And as she touches this name, this final honor given to one who was not there to receive it, she is overcome. The faces, the laughs, the the last words that had at the time, seemed commonplace, habitual.

"I'll see you this evening."

And that was the end. The terror comes rushing through her now, the memories alive and violent, charging through the holes torn in her defenses by this name, those words. She is shaking, scared and feeling oh so alone. And this horrible vulnerability attacks her, steals away her strength, and she can hold out no longer. For 364 days, she'd been standing strong, and this was the day to give in.

Her knees suddenly give out, and she sinks against the chill marble. But her hand refuses to shift, her small fingers finding some modicum of determination in the etched letters of that name that will forever define her world. Thick tears, silent and powerful, glide down her face, stealing all her warmth. She leans her head against the marble wall, trying to gather herself, to pull back her emotions and mend the wall.

But suddenly, there is a flicker of warmth on her shoulder, a melting of the ice that was crawling across her skin. And when she looks up, into a flash of sunlight, she sees the strong outline of another person, a fellow griever perhaps. He has rested his hand upon her shoulder, lending silent strength with the simple act of being here, of understanding.

And she knows then that she is not alone, and she will never be alone. For that name that breaks her is not alone, and every name that follows it belongs to another, another whose heart is torn and jagged just as hers.

She rises to her feet, all doubt and fear dissipating in the growing warmth of the day. This kind stranger beside her looks at his watch and takes a heavy breath. She follows his example and feels her heart throb when she sees that is it 8:46 in the morning, exactly eleven later.

And she rests her hand now on this stranger's arm, returning the strength he'd lent to her. And together, they step up to the marble wall, gazing across the square pits in the ground, filled now as they had been eleven years ago. the water of the fountains sloshes and sings, its sound giving unexpected comfort.

Together, she and her companion look out at the site where the world changed, where the country became united. They were not alone, and the group who gathered around them joined their vigilant stare, silent and sharing a grief renewed, a strength hard to find. A few yards away, is a mirror image, another group of survivors, of hope, another foundation running with eternal water.

There is a cycle in this moment, the rushing of the recycled water, in that moment eternal. The people stand silent, their tears proudly displayed. Eleven years later, and still they gather, still they remember. They will stay strong, and they will never forget.

As the sunlight glances off the water in the foundations of the World Trade Center, she lifts her gaze to the sky and sends up a prayer for guidance and help. She will make it her duty to ensure that the next generations know, remember, honor. She will make it her duty to hear the words from the lips of the children who were lucky enough to have been born in the past eleven years:

"You are not forgotten."

Reviews

[Mr Dunne Poetry]

Such a sad day clouded with conspiracies and little known truths. My poem "Obama is the Bomber" may be off some interest to you.

[Michael G.]

No review.
Joining you in silent remembrance.