On that morning

I was coming up from the basement in Denver, trying to visit the DMV that day. The television was on, as it often was, and Meg was standing with her back to the top of the stairs. There was a hesitant stillness in the air. “Some idiot just flew a plane into the World Trade center!” I stepped forward, stood beside her, and then was beside myself, as we both watched live, while the second plane hit.
There we were. Nothing to say. Disbelief. Etched in permanent memory. Broken. Flames. People. Falling. Death. Can’t catch my breath quite yet as I think of it again. I do not need to be told to always remember. I cannot forget that morning and the days to come. My 1973 Chevy Blazer ‘Annabel’ got registered that very day, shortly before all government buildings were closed. I wanted to drive through LODO with my inherited flag waving from the rollbar. I wanted to beat my fists in the air. I wanted to enlist. I wanted to understand. I was not yet a praying man, but I believe I came up with some sort of version that day. I realized that I would not understand. I realized that there were many far younger than I was, being raised in worse conditions. There were so many who lost so much more than I did that day. So much unbearable loss around the globe being perpetuated. All these years later, I still remember as vividly, but choose to love more deeply than before.

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Being heard, stirred, and perhaps cured by life's many hidden images and the written-spoken word.
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