9/11

It's been 7 years.   I remember sirens.  I remember the air tasting like panic, filling my lungs.  I remember breathing, in and out, in and out, in.  I remember being surprised by how quiet it was and longing for a truck to honk, a cabbie to yell some fowl word out his window with his fist raised to the sky.  I remember that fighter jets sound like airliners.  I remember seeing the Towers fall as I stood on solid ground-- 32nd street and 5th Ave.  I remember everything slowing down, blurring around the edges, the haze seeping into my brain.  What did I see?  What does it mean?

I remember Kate's warmth as she snuggled close to my chest and my arms around her--squeezing, filling any gap between us.  I  can still see her red strawberry hat with that comical little green stem, in stark contrast to the gray, smoke-filled sky.  I hear increasing concern in my voice as I leave messages on my husband's answering machine at work. I remember the minutes I spent contemplating widowhood and seeing Kate grow as an only child.  I remember how it felt to see my husband walk through the door of our apartment.  I remember how tangible he was, how real he felt when I hugged him.  I remember God on that day.  And on many days after.