Dedication

We remember.

We remember exactly what we were doing, where we were, when we were told.

We remember the stories.

We also remember the other stories, the individual ones, the ones that didn’t make the news.

Smaller tragedies tend to get swallowed up by the greater ones. It is the way of life, but that doesn’t help the individual, struggling with the grief and pain.

But we remember.

I remember.

I remember thinking of friends I knew, in the greater area, and thinking, “Whew! Glad they’re in Connecticut, and not there!” Only to learn later, they were scheduled to work in the WTC that day, but the job was canceled last minute, after the work trucks were packed, and ready to go…

I remember the friends who lived, because their alarm clocks didn’t go off.

I remember the friend who is completely shattered, because she was safe in Delaware, but on the phone with her colleague in Tower One, chatting as they exchanged information for their jobs. And then the phone went dead.

I remember the one who was responsible, trying to get the late partiers home safely. Everybody in the car, to their houses, except the one who was agitated, they stayed up all night, they need to get to work! Fine, I’ll take you to your job, where is it? WTC, fine, let’s go… And while in traffic that suddenly ground to a halt, saw the smoke rising, and said nope, you’re going home.

I remember the one who, evacuated from her job, was downtown, when suddenly bits of charred debris rained down around her. In a trance, she picked up a piece of paper, half of it burnt away, and it galvanized her to get out of the danger zone.

I remember the one who was feeling sick, and needed to find a replacement, and called up her friend, begging her to go on her day off. And the friend agreed, though reluctantly. And the guilt that is now eating the living one alive, because swap shifts aren’t supposed to be deadly.

I remember the one who learned their own building was on fire, by turning on the TV.

I remember the ones who were saved, because they weren’t at their desks. Why? They were nowhere in the strike zone, staring at the biggest effing rat they’d ever seen, pulled out of the sub-basement, by a janitor. Saved by an R.O.U.S. – inconceivable!

I remember the ones who came home with terrible sunburns, because they were walking, shoulder to shoulder, through the grass at the Pentagon, marking anything out of place. Surreal, when your place of business becomes one of the largest crime scenes on record.

I remember the kid, scared when their mother didn’t come home on time, then came home later, much later, exhausted, ready to sleep, not much time for cuddles. Why did someone he had never met, want to kill his mom? He had seen the news. Imagine the shock and trauma a few weeks later, when the anthrax letters arrived in the mail, exactly where his father worked…

I remember the friend who was ready to leave, when his toddler screamed and wrapped himself around Dad’s legs, sobbing, screaming, “Don’t go, Daddy, don’t go, you’ll die!” because that what his dreams said. Normally, Dad would soothe him and hand him off to Mom, but this time the kiddo wasn’t having it. Ah, screw it, this time he called off, and stayed home. And then turned on the news…

These are the ones I know personally, the people I remember. Friends, family, loved ones, impacted, still reverberating, like plucked strings that cannot be stilled.

I remember.

They remember. They cannot forget.

I also remember the one I cannot find.

Robert, where are you? You’re name isn’t on the rolls of the dead, but I can’t find you anywhere else, either. You were supposed to be working that day, in that tower, but you vanished instead. In a world that’s constantly, persistently, insidiously, documented, it’s hard to imagine a world where we were only communicating via email and voice messages.

I remember the relief I felt, when we got word that my sister-in-law was safe.

I remember the anguish of the messages that were never returned.

I remember the pain of lives cut short, but I also remember the lives that shattered, that now have pieces missing.

Time heals, perhaps, but the scars remain.

I remember.

We remember.