| Commentary and Philosophy Non-Fiction posted September 11, 2020 |
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How quickly we forget the unforgettable.
WHOSE Anniversary?
by Elizabeth Emerald
THIS IS A REPROMOTION OF LAST YEAR'S POST ON THIS DATE.
Oh my God. Nine-Eleven. I just realized as I wrote the date: nineteen years ago today the world ended.
Only it didn’t. Within—oh—about a month, six weeks at the outside, the Metro Letters-to-the-Editor section reverted to its usual petty complaints; e.g.: The subway system sucks.
Of course, family members long continued to mourn their dead. But each morning the mourning competed with the mundane. It had to be so; life necessarily goes on. There are children to tend, jobs to return to. Appetites return, too. The brain may feel far from merry, but the body must, eat, drink, and eliminate the evidence thereof.
Brief respites mercifully encroach upon the torment. Eventually, a joke brings a guilty chuckle. One day, an outright laugh bursts out unabashedly. After all, He Wouldn’t Have Wanted you to suffer forever. He Would Have Wanted you to Move On.
And so you do. In fits and starts. Dribs and drabs. For a long time the time-outs are mere seconds—99% of your thoughts remain with him. Months, years; eventually the balance shifts, no longer in his favor. Of course you’ll still think of him, often. Birthdays, holidays are tough; always will be. And anniversaries—9-11 will haunt you forever, a Hellish Halloween.
As for the rest of us, we’ll remember, too. We’ll be reminded continuously, channel-by-channel, today, the nineteenth anniversary of that monstrous event.
When I’d set out this morning, pen in hand, to dribble my daily drivel, I hadn’t yet turned on the radio.
Then, at 8:45—almost to the minute that the first tower was struck—my phone rang. It was Chuck.
He called to remind me.
That is, to remind me he’d be swinging by at noon to drive me to work. (On account of the rain—he’s very solicitous of my comfort, would never let me chance getting caught while walking.)
After thanking Chuck, I reminded him about today.
That is, to remind him that today was the day that Rick—my ride home—would be out, and so Chuck would have to pick me up as well.
THIS IS A REPROMOTION OF LAST YEAR'S POST ON THIS DATE.
Oh my God. Nine-Eleven. I just realized as I wrote the date: nineteen years ago today the world ended.
Only it didn’t. Within—oh—about a month, six weeks at the outside, the Metro Letters-to-the-Editor section reverted to its usual petty complaints; e.g.: The subway system sucks.
Of course, family members long continued to mourn their dead. But each morning the mourning competed with the mundane. It had to be so; life necessarily goes on. There are children to tend, jobs to return to. Appetites return, too. The brain may feel far from merry, but the body must, eat, drink, and eliminate the evidence thereof.
Brief respites mercifully encroach upon the torment. Eventually, a joke brings a guilty chuckle. One day, an outright laugh bursts out unabashedly. After all, He Wouldn’t Have Wanted you to suffer forever. He Would Have Wanted you to Move On.
And so you do. In fits and starts. Dribs and drabs. For a long time the time-outs are mere seconds—99% of your thoughts remain with him. Months, years; eventually the balance shifts, no longer in his favor. Of course you’ll still think of him, often. Birthdays, holidays are tough; always will be. And anniversaries—9-11 will haunt you forever, a Hellish Halloween.
As for the rest of us, we’ll remember, too. We’ll be reminded continuously, channel-by-channel, today, the nineteenth anniversary of that monstrous event.
When I’d set out this morning, pen in hand, to dribble my daily drivel, I hadn’t yet turned on the radio.
Then, at 8:45—almost to the minute that the first tower was struck—my phone rang. It was Chuck.
He called to remind me.
That is, to remind me he’d be swinging by at noon to drive me to work. (On account of the rain—he’s very solicitous of my comfort, would never let me chance getting caught while walking.)
After thanking Chuck, I reminded him about today.
That is, to remind him that today was the day that Rick—my ride home—would be out, and so Chuck would have to pick me up as well.
Oh my God. Nine-Eleven. I just realized as I wrote the date: nineteen years ago today the world ended.
Only it didn’t. Within—oh—about a month, six weeks at the outside, the Metro Letters-to-the-Editor section reverted to its usual petty complaints; e.g.: The subway system sucks.
Of course, family members long continued to mourn their dead. But each morning the mourning competed with the mundane. It had to be so; life necessarily goes on. There are children to tend, jobs to return to. Appetites return, too. The brain may feel far from merry, but the body must, eat, drink, and eliminate the evidence thereof.
Brief respites mercifully encroach upon the torment. Eventually, a joke brings a guilty chuckle. One day, an outright laugh bursts out unabashedly. After all, He Wouldn’t Have Wanted you to suffer forever. He Would Have Wanted you to Move On.
And so you do. In fits and starts. Dribs and drabs. For a long time the time-outs are mere seconds—99% of your thoughts remain with him. Months, years; eventually the balance shifts, no longer in his favor. Of course you’ll still think of him, often. Birthdays, holidays are tough; always will be. And anniversaries—9-11 will haunt you forever, a Hellish Halloween.
As for the rest of us, we’ll remember, too. We’ll be reminded continuously, channel-by-channel, today, the nineteenth anniversary of that monstrous event.
When I’d set out this morning, pen in hand, to dribble my daily drivel, I hadn’t yet turned on the radio.
Then, at 8:45—almost to the minute that the first tower was struck—my phone rang. It was Chuck.
He called to remind me.
That is, to remind me he’d be swinging by at noon to drive me to work. (On account of the rain—he’s very solicitous of my comfort, would never let me chance getting caught while walking.)
After thanking Chuck, I reminded him about today.
That is, to remind him that today was the day that Rick—my ride home—would be out, and so Chuck would have to pick me up as well.
Thanks to MoonWillow for artwork: Helza Blaze
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