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9-11-02 Moving closer, the
first is barely visible now against the farthest corner of
memory, a slight tremor. Straining to hear, we peer at the horizon, scanning for shapes, unfolding the whir, the stir in the air. Noiseless, painless, light as whispers, they come back to this place from which they were splintered, on this, the anniversary of
their unholy transition into a holy place. We
stand silent on
the ground, peering down to
see some shred of hope or
substance in the scraped-hard earth. Squinting to see any semblance of
what was here, still finding it hard and scorched and sharp and unyielding to
have another November 22… an
assassination of the spirit, a
death of dreams. From the flattened ashen soil, look to the endless gray of the skies. From a place we have dreamed, beyond and far away into imagination, come softly down shades of pink and
peach and pearl. And
there is a music beyond, behind, above, through us, a
chorus, an orchestra finding lost anthems, with resounding cathedrals of bass and
tiniest wisps of treble, at
once large and small music that finds what each of us lost and
puts it back, even if just for a moment, just like it was. And, listening, we
unfold our hands like petals reaching to the sun and
our hearing to the magic like a warm handshake or
a familiar hug. We
are not here alone. Any
more. They have come. They will come again. It
is one year. It
is thousands of lifetimes. Wherever we are this year next year all
years we
open the shutters of
our morning and
fling open its doors to
the essence of those lost, to
the continuing of them in
us, in all
of us, all
children in some degree of
that day that changed the face of
liberty forever by
adding the trace of a salt-streaked tear at
the curve of the cheek, just below the sad gray eyes. The
torch remains. Its
light comforts the
harbor. A
place of shelter, the
refuge remains. We
owe the light to
those who yet have to know its promise, to
those who still disdain the joy of freedom, to
those who cannot see beyond their moment’s survival into a tomorrow of any kind. All
bearers of the light, we
take turns, standing watch, peering into the night, waiting for the lost, who
have, over time, become us, and
our children. A
million anniversaries bring the day to us, burned into our souls like x-rays. We
move forward haltingly before our eyes have remembered sight and
before our ears have found the music, before our footing is sure and
before our pain is gone. There is a power in the air around us that makes fire look cold. It
is the chapel for them. For
us, an
involuntary clutching of a grief so
fierce we
yet have no words for
its intensity. A
harboring of purpose, a
future with a
memory. Amen. this poem was written on 29 August 2002 by susan godman rager in honor and in memory of those lost 11 september 2001 c2001-2002 SG Rager sgrager@ragerlaw.com This page is part of the Northern Neck of Virginia Law Page web site. Please feel free to e-mail your comments ..... and visit the original 9-11 Poem, "Omega," on this site, by clicking here.
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