Falling Up
I saw a maple drenched in gold.
The wind was tickling its inside, wrestling loose a great batch
leaves.
They lingered for a moment in mid-air, dancing round and around,
and then drifted upward, reminding me of souls.
9/30/01
Life Cereal
The other morning I looked down at my Life cereal and for a
moment every piece looked like a broken bit of building – a
pile of flooded rubble.
And – dear God – this one half-bitten piece reminded me
of that one edge of building still left standing.
It was the same crooked, jagged shape.
I swear
I’m not crazy.
9/30/01
Now
I thought I’d moved on or at least put up the shields.
But then we were driving – outside was dying –
While Guns ‘N Roses sang "Knockin’ on
Heaven’s Door."
This white autumn light filtered through the clouds and shrouded
the hills.
Through the fog for a moment I saw everything.
Life stabbed me.
"This is how it is now," was all I could think.
This is how it is.
As the concrete ran beside me and the trees flew by.
10/29/01
Looking Up
We spotted the low-flying, single engine plane at the same
time.
"Terrorists," Chris said matter-of-factly a moment
later.
I already thought that, I replied.
Beat you to it.
Then I wondered: is this the new normal?
The new absurd.
Not just the fear, but how effortlessly we’ve accepted it.
10/29/01
At the Anthrax Update
The strangeness of it struck me about halfway through the meeting.
Here we were, ears pricked and pens poised, hanging onto every morsel of fact, as Dr. Rauch, the "bioterrorism expert" taught us about inhalation anthrax, smallpox vaccine, and the threat to our nation’s water and food supply.
I looked over at John Whittaker, manager of the Mail Room.
One day we had screamed over the phone over which of us was
responsible for ordering envelopes.
That seems so long ago, don’t you think, John? I asked
him silently.
He was busy taking mental notes on how to protect his staff from
strange white powder.
Does anyone think this is crazy? I wanted to call out.
Does anyone else think this is a very long, bizarre dream?
On the other side of the room, I heard a familiar voice. I
looked over and saw her.
"This keeps me awake at night," she was saying.
"I’m scared health care is next. I’m afraid to
come to work here. Are we safe?"
The last time we’d talked, I’d been sitting on the exam room table, shivering in a gown. Her son was going to play in a golf tournament. She had laughed at my hypochondria.
Chris, Chris, Chris. Is that you? I wondered.
You can’t be afraid. I’m the one who’s always
afraid. Say you’re not scared.
This can’t be, that I want to walk across the room and
console you.
None of this can be, but yet, it seems to be
Even though I’m looking for the cameras, waiting for the
scene to end, once someone calls "cut!"
10/31/01
The Fireman
It’s Halloween. Cold and rainy.
There’s a helicopter overhead.
Maybe it’s nothing.
Down the street this house flies three American flags over their
graveyard, webs and skeletons.
A little boy dressed like a fireman sloshes through wet leaves
and tries to beat the dark.
10/31/01
The Video
There was nothing to be afraid of, really.
So why was my heart pounding as I pushed the flimsy tape into my
VCR?
Why fear a removed moment?
Before it all happened on September 11, early that morning
Chris had been on some floor of the hospital filming residents
for me.
And now seven weeks later we’d finally found the tape.
The footage was amazingly mundane –
Two woman and one man, standing over charts, talking. Five mere
minutes of tape.
Yet I watched with absolute fascination
I watched like I was God.
You don’t know what’s going to happen,
You don’t know what going to happen.
Seeing them laughing and sipping coffee, this sadness crushed
me.
I wanted to go back.
I wanted to warn them.
I wanted to scream or shake them or just whisper please.
Enjoy every one of these last weightless little moments.
10/31/01
Game Seven
There’s this voice in my head screaming "What are
you doing!?"
It’s the bottom of the ninth and I’m biting my nails,
praying the Yankees win.
This goes against 26 years of ingrained tradition, against
everything that flows in my blood.
Am I really doing this?
I feel as if it’s someone else watching and hoping against
hope for them,
Someone very different than the person who almost bought a
Yankees suck T-shirt at
Fenway Park last May.
Oh.
It is me.
11/7/01
Quabbin Reservoir
You can’t come in, the sign tells us.
You can’t walk beneath the ancient maples, down this winding
road to the green of a town that died long ago.
My dad first took me here when I was small.
I’ve walked back several times over the years, drinking in
the silence and beauty, slightly haunted at the site of cellar
holes and empty paths.
But now we can’t come in.
They have to protect the water.
I stare beyond the gates for a moment, shivering in the breeze.
Then we drive away.
11/14/01
All Over Again
A plane fell out of the sky again the other day.
It’s amazing how you can resolve to let go of something, how you can be so close to letting it grow fuzzy in your mind rather than reliving the details, when you get jolted back in a matter of seconds.
My racing heart and the blaring television and smoke pouring
from the New York sky –
All over again.
The only thing that’s missing is surprise.
11/14/01
The Ticker
"Did they always have the ticker?" Dan asked as we
stared at CNN.
News tidbits danced across the blue strip at the bottom.
I followed them until I grew dizzy.
Dan mouthed as he read.
"I don’t know," I answered, gazing at the screen.
Neither of us could remember.
11/21/01
Wondering
It’s gray and misting outside and I feel a little sad.
I’m wondering if they’re out there, whoever they are,
just waiting.
Are they waiting for us to start living again?
I was reading this article awhile ago.
A New York police officer was weeping, asking
"How could they do this to our beautiful city?"
That’s what I’m feeling, thinking about the faceless
"they."
How could they do this to my country?
I’m not the type to clench my fists in defiance and vow that
the American spirit will not be crushed.
Let’s be real. We’re broken.
I know we will get better. I just wonder about the scar.
11/29/01
Fog
In the thick fog the city has disappeared.
Is this how it is for New York?
People keep looking, saying, I know this was the spot, but
already the memory is murky.
The fog is one thing, but to search on a stunningly clear day
and to still see nothing –what is that like?
I can’t understand, so I stand and squint in the mist and
try to imagine.
11/30/01
Today
This morning the Today show began with more news of war
deaths and bombs and searches for evil men.
At Ground Zero, above the rubble, they lit a Christmas tree and
then a menorah.
On the screen, a red-cheeked baby girl who lost her dad looked up
at the lights.
Behind her, men in yarmulkes sang songs that resonated in the
still, cold night.
I tried not to cry as I buttoned my coat to leave.
At the news desk Ann Curry shuffled her papers and looked to
Katie Couric.
"The news is just so sad today," she said.
Stepping out into the morning, I felt warmed somehow.
I think it was just knowing someone else understood.
12/10/01
Where We Were September 10
I don’t believe in ghosts, but I feel them as my feet pad
down this softly-lit hallway: shades of an earlier me.
Laughter lingers in the corners, along with all that ceased when
this hallway was christened: "where I spent the afternoon
before."
This ordinary place is doomed in my mind: never a mere transition
to another room, but rather, another life.
What I Made
Watching the Yankees in the World Series on Classic Sports,
I play a secret, silent game.
If I let now fade into the background, if I turn up the volume
and have the murmur of the crowd surround me, then I’ve
brought the city to life again.
And I can recapture that blissful, simple joy of only worrying
the ball will not be caught, or leave the park.
I attach myself to this distant October evening.
I close my eyes and feel: the crack of the bat and the nip in the
air; people hoping, the towers standing watch, and the sweet
smell of dying leaves.
Road Trip
When the war began, we were driving in western Kentucky on a
Sunday morning.
Home was a thousand miles away.
Even the light seemed a stranger, the way it softened the edges
of everything; the way it poured across the fields.
We listened to the radio, leaning unconsciously forward,
closer to the crackles.
Strange thoughts tumbled around in my mind.
I longed for the ocean. I could see us on the map; too much land
on either side.
Were we trapped? Running away from or to something?
I kept stopping inside to check if everything was real,
because I could, in the background, hear my own voice:
"Mom, you know I had this dream?
And we were driving in the middle of Kentucky for some reason.
All of this crazy stuff was going on.
We were bombing someone.
I think it was the end of the world."
But no, there was the cool of window glass as my cheek pressed
against it, and the sour taste of orange juice on my tongue, and
the crumpled up newspapers under my sneakers.
We were really here.
What to do then?
I busied myself looking for road signs.
I marveled at bizarre jungle vines growing along the endless
strip of highway.
And when we stopped briefly at a gas station, something mildly
funny sent me into hysterics.
I let myself laugh more than the moment deserved.
I teetered on the edge of that thin line between laughter and
tears, chasing away the strangeness, chasing away the fear.
4/9/02