One Week Later
It's hard to believe a week has already passed. Last Tuesday morning at 5:30 AM, who among us knew how different the world would seem in just a few hours?
I have found ways to continue to do the things I have to do to keep my life moving as it must, but at night, when I put my head to the pillow, those thoughts are always waiting for me. I find myself thinking of the victims, all the different kinds of victims of last Tuesday's attack, from the ones in the planes to the ones on the top floors of the towers and in the subway station several stories below the street, all those firefighters running up the stairs, the people at the Pentagon, all the people who may have still been alive after the buildings fell and how long they might have been conscious underneath the rubble before their broken bodies finally gave out and they drew their last breaths.
But the circle of victims spreads wider than that. I think about all the grieving families left behind, the wives, husbands, parents, partners, children and best friends who won't see the most important person in their lives, ever again. I think of that cat or dog left waiting in some apartment in New York city or Washington DC, and I hope that someone else thought of that faithful friend too.
I also think about the Muslims here in America and other dark-skinned people who have been targeted since the attack, and the ones overseas who are likely to lose their lives, despite, perhaps, not agreeing with the terrorists any more than I agree with the extremists Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson here at home.
I think about all the children throughout the world who witnessed what happened last week, either in person from the windows of their schools in New York, or through the window provided to all of us by the television, and my heart feels very heavy. How would my consciousness have been shaped if I had witnessed thousands of people die when I was five years old? or eight? or eleven? or fifteen?
So even though life continues, and I go about my day-to-day business, these are the thoughts that crowd my head after the lights are out. And for the last three nights I've dreamed about it, as well. I guess my brain needs to continue processing the experience whether I am conscious or not. Sleep no longer seems like an escape from my thoughts. In the days following last Tuesday, I had to remind myself upon waking that it had really happened. These last few mornings, I've had to remind myself that I wasn't really on that plane, and Marty wasn't under that building.
If I could pray, I would.
Instead, I'd like to point out a suggestion made by one of Alicia's best friends. I'm glad she chose to share her thoughts, and I thank Alicia for posting them.
It's hard to believe a week has already passed. Last Tuesday morning at 5:30 AM, who among us knew how different the world would seem in just a few hours?
I have found ways to continue to do the things I have to do to keep my life moving as it must, but at night, when I put my head to the pillow, those thoughts are always waiting for me. I find myself thinking of the victims, all the different kinds of victims of last Tuesday's attack, from the ones in the planes to the ones on the top floors of the towers and in the subway station several stories below the street, all those firefighters running up the stairs, the people at the Pentagon, all the people who may have still been alive after the buildings fell and how long they might have been conscious underneath the rubble before their broken bodies finally gave out and they drew their last breaths.
But the circle of victims spreads wider than that. I think about all the grieving families left behind, the wives, husbands, parents, partners, children and best friends who won't see the most important person in their lives, ever again. I think of that cat or dog left waiting in some apartment in New York city or Washington DC, and I hope that someone else thought of that faithful friend too.
I also think about the Muslims here in America and other dark-skinned people who have been targeted since the attack, and the ones overseas who are likely to lose their lives, despite, perhaps, not agreeing with the terrorists any more than I agree with the extremists Jerry Falwell and Pat Robertson here at home.
I think about all the children throughout the world who witnessed what happened last week, either in person from the windows of their schools in New York, or through the window provided to all of us by the television, and my heart feels very heavy. How would my consciousness have been shaped if I had witnessed thousands of people die when I was five years old? or eight? or eleven? or fifteen?
So even though life continues, and I go about my day-to-day business, these are the thoughts that crowd my head after the lights are out. And for the last three nights I've dreamed about it, as well. I guess my brain needs to continue processing the experience whether I am conscious or not. Sleep no longer seems like an escape from my thoughts. In the days following last Tuesday, I had to remind myself upon waking that it had really happened. These last few mornings, I've had to remind myself that I wasn't really on that plane, and Marty wasn't under that building.
If I could pray, I would.
Instead, I'd like to point out a suggestion made by one of Alicia's best friends. I'm glad she chose to share her thoughts, and I thank Alicia for posting them.
<< Home