A friend mentioned on her Facebook page that the sky this week has been “September 11 Blue”. I felt one of those momentary jolts of consciousness, when thoughts connect with another person’s thoughts without warning. Do more people think of that color of the sky as September 11 blue? I remember sitting on the Long Island Rail Road train as it approached the East Side Tunnel at 8:40 a.m. Lower Manhattan was outlined in silver against the blue sky. Not a cloud in the sky. I looked with pleasure at lower Manhattan…and I had no idea that several hours later, I would be on a similar train handing tissues to a woman covered in debris weeping quietly in the back of the car, turning around to see the smoking ruins turning the sky gray.
My own September 11 story was published last year. I’m not going to repeat it. We remember where we were on days like this. I used to wonder at my parents when they said things like, “I remember where I was the day JFK was shot.” My dad remembered with crystal clarity the moment when the news of Pearl Harbor came over the radio; he was laying on his living room floor, listening to his favorite program on the radio, and he remembers the instant he realized what had truly happened.
I can’t put my finger on how I feel this year. I sat up last night watching a special on September 11. On the one hand, it brought back memories – way too many. I felt like I was right back in my office on the 9th floor with the awful orange shag carpet and the wonderful view of the stage door of the Metropolitan Opera House in New York City. I used to stand at the windows in the fall and watch men unload trucks unload of costumes for the season’s ballets and operas. I felt as if I were standing there watching the exhausted walking northward from lower Manhattan, or the endless fire trucks and military vehicles travel south.
I remember the sound of the church bells in Manhattan tolling, one peal for each person who died.
At St. Paul the Apostle Church near where I used to work, the September 11 service included volunteers going up to the podium and reading the names of the dead. They rang the church bell once for each person who had died. It took over an hour, maybe an hour and a half or two hours, to get through the list.
I remember the people left behind today. I keep thinking about Tommy. Tommy was my friend Sue’s date for our senior prom, a boy she’d grown up with in Queens – not a boyfriend, but a good friend of her older brother, a boy she considered like a cousin or another brother. Tommy’s mother worked in the trade towers and they assume she died when the first plane hit. Her office was on the floor that received a direct hit. I keep hearing Sue tell me, “He pictures his mom at her desk. She used to go down to the cart on the street each morning around 8:30 and buy a bagel and a coffee, and take it back to her desk. He imagines her at the desk, just sitting there eating her breakfast and not knowing what happened.”
I remember stories told to me by a friend who was leaving a meeting at the Department of Education when the plane hit the Pentagon. His back was turned; he felt the impact, saw people running, and then realized with cold shock, “Oh my gosh. The Pentagon is on fire.”
I remember the stained glass window, fitted to one of the older altars at St. Francis of Assisi Church on west 31st street, that showed the firefighters and the twin towers.
I remember friends who developed thyroid, lung and breathing problems after volunteering at Ground Zero. They helped at the morgue, they helped search the rubble. Many of them developed health problems and quietly got treatment for them. They don’t talk about what caused it. They just go on.
That is what I feel like today – we need to go on. We need to pause, and remember, but we need to move on. The gaping hole at Ground Zero needs filling. The gaping hole in our hearts needs healing.
I wish I were back in New York City this weekend. I am glad I am here at home in Virginia.
