I know it’s been over six years. I know that we weren’t affected the way so many others were, on that day. I know that my family is blessed, all of us, because my Uncle was smart enough to ignore the “stay in the building” announcements, and he left.
I know that I personally didn’t know any of the firefighters killed that day, although every firefighter is my brother- as I am theirs, too. When my volunteer company “adopted” the family of one of those fallen, I didn’t know them at all; and although I haven’t seen them in a while now, as a company we did what we could for them, simply because we had to.
I know all this- and I know, too, that there will always be a huge hole in the lower part of Manhattan, for all of us that were even remotely close to this point. I remember the tribute in light, walking around Trinity Church and seeing and reading the spontaneous memorials left there. I see the hole, the gaping blank space where the towers used to be, and it aches, with a rather vague, not particularly sharp but-most-definitely- there kind of pain.
I’ve used the WTC station for the train before, and will do so again; but today, as I walked up the street, in the drizzle, I came across something that made me pause. I hadn’t seen this before, hadn’t given it much thought honestly:
It’s the cross, made from beams on September 13th. It’s been relocated alongside a church on Church Street, and it caught my eye today. I paused, there in the rain, and offered a prayer; it’s all I could think of to do.
When I had finished, (And yes, it’s NYC- no one even gave me a glance), I took some photographs, so I can remember to count the blessings that I have been given, to be grateful for my family, and the brotherhood that I am part of, for the men and women that can still run in when everyone else is running out.
And I can remember, sometimes, that in spite of a gap in the skyline, we can celebrate the good things in life.