My father was to have flown home from San Francisco that day.
My cousin was flying home to New York that day.
My brother was downtown that day.
My father remained longer with us before travelling. My cousin spent time among kindly strangers in Canada. My brother walked through the city, as did so many others, but not without first having seen what no one should see.
This day is an ache in my soul each year. Maybe the ache is easing. I cannot tell.
I listened to John Adams' On the Transmigration of Souls today, written in commemoration of the day. I caught it on the radio as I drove about, quietly, doing errands.
More than once today my eyes were wet.
Is that all I can do? Weep?
With the psalmist, with Lord Byron, I sit by the streams, the rivers, and weep. Weep for loss. Weep for lack of understanding. Weep for we foolish humans who willfully cast aside the call to be better.
Not do better. Be better.
Perhaps, one day, there will be more I can do.
But for now, I sit and stare at the horror that we can be - and weep.