On 9/11, I felt like I was no longer going to be alone with those feelings. There would be an entire nation wondering, who, why. The immeasurable sorrow. The unimaginable anger. Only difference, almost immediately, the evil of 9/11 had a face... many faces. The person responsible taken to task eventually. That happened just a few months ago, and I could not be more pleased. And, sorry, but it does not feel wrong to admit this.
In the case of my family tragedy, the person responsible for our pain remains a mystery. But the memory of the years that passed when I all wanted to do was get her back, call her to say hi, ask for a recipe, joke and laugh with her; rekindled. (I actually had to stop myself at times those first few years, from picking up the phone - positive 9/11 was one of those times.) The memory of viewing her lying there in an open casket; looking nothing like herself - more like a terracotta likeness, a poor one at that. I remember hating the white satin lace-trimmed blouse that was selected for her funeral, I'm sure to hide signs of physical trauma. She would never choose something granny-like like that, and a turtleneck... in the summer? I don't like that those memories have gripped me again. What bothers me most is what remains, questions: Who? Why?
Confusion, pain and fear seem to have resurfaced in the last couple of days. This is keeping me up at night. I'm feeling hate too, just like I did that July, then again that September 11th morning, 2001. Don't know how to let that go. I hope writing about it will help me sleep tonight.
I know the pain felt by the families of 9/11. I need to draw from their examples of strength and perseverance. They are my heroes.
I will never forget.
I will never forget.
That's all.
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