11 Years

I turned on our local NPR this morning at 7:46 CST, expecting to hear silence, or at least a story about this date in history. But the reporter was in the middle of some other story, so I turned it off.

Living somewhere else now, my observance of this date has become more and more internal, quieter, more private. But there is still the self that stood glued to the windows for hours, watching in disbelief as the landscape of New York City changed before her eyes, who packed a bag of essentials just in case, who watched the sharp orange, the thick grey, the hazy beige. Who had no idea what was going to happen.

I still have no idea what is going to happen, but I do know that some people will choose hate, and some people will choose help. Some will choose to tear apart, some will choose to build and rebuild. Some will choose their nightmares, and some will choose their dreams. And life will keep living itself.