Tuesday, September 11, 2012
That year I saw the dust of new souls settle quickly on my window sill, life caught off guard, amazed at dying, wandering, perhaps looking for an attachment to a life ended in disbelief.
The residue of 9/11 sifted over New York City, and windows, in my apartment, shut tight, couldn't stop the silt from seeping in, graying my black phone, smudging a blue plate waiting to be filled with food, my hair, dull wisps, and my finger able to print my name on the table top. I wiped all clean, only to start all over again in a minute.
Eleven years later, the air is cleansed, and ordinary, common detritus accumulates, takes over. But in those first days, weeks, dust had a life of its own. A death of its own. We knew what that dust was made of.
And in New York City, you can count on it, sort of place a bet, that always, this date, this 9/11, would ascend as a beautiful day, from sunrise on, a blue clarity, a cloudless sky, a mild warmth in welcome contrast to a blistering summer.
On my tongue, a taste is discerned, a bit salty, tears caught in the flask of time, released every year on a New York City day of clear perfection.
Remember/ The Pentagon/ Shanksville, Pa.
copyright/all rights reserved/ 2011