I’m sitting here watching a documentary on the History Channel about 9/11/2001, and wondering why on earth I do this to myself – why do I insist on picking the scab? But I have to. Survivor’s guilt, maybe? I’m fine; I didn’t know anyone who was killed or injured; I have heard some first-hand accounts (you ok, Heather of Craftlit? Wish I could give you a hug… and I wonder where and how the girl from NYRF is now), but … I’m ok. And maybe I feel like I owe it to the thousands and thousands of people who aren’t ok, this moment where I rip the scab off and bleed a little each year, psychically if not physically.
And all I’ve been able to think all day has been:
And Washington DC. And Shanksville PA. But I’ve been to New York, more times than I can remember. I’ve wandered around with a friend who was as country-mouse as me, and I’ve wandered with a friend who lived there and loved it. One of my earliest memories was going to see Annie on Broadway. It’s big and bold and brash and beautiful. Then, and still, and always.
So – yeah. I’ll always mark this day with tears and grief and whatever kind of remembrance I can manage. I don’t know if I’ll always have the courage to relive it like I’ve been doing this evening – and I know I’ll never watch that other documentary with footage from inside the Towers again, with those thuds that still live in my memory – but, yeah. It feels necessary.
Aaaand I think I’m going to put together survival packs for my entire family for Christmas. USB flashlights, flasks, mini first-aid kits, whatever else I can think of…
Oh, and tissues. Lots and lots of tissues.
Stewartry 