In Consideration,
September 11
---Cait Featherstone
It was early, early
in the morning,
before the
reflection of a plane appeared
on the windows of
the Towers.
That day most did
what they did
every day.
They showered,
shaved, deordorized,
caught a train, a
subway, a bus, a taxi.
But not without
noting how beautiful the sky,
how clear the air,
how bright the day.
When the rush of
routine matters renders
a morning's
movements nearly invisible,
we take little
notice.
With no siren to alert
us to our breath,
we make no plans to
die.
Someone arrived to
work on time,
sat at his desk, as
he did each day,
Monday through
Friday.
Someone overslept,
hit a snooze button
chasing down a
dream.
And though his
employer
at the Windows on
the World restaurant
had given him the
day off to celebrate,
someone went to work
on his birthday
for the overtime
pay,
to get a little
ahead.
Someone missed her
train
when her daughter's
sore throat
forced phone calls
to the school and
her office.
Someone signed a
permission slip
his son left on the
kitchen counter
for a field trip to
the National History Museum.
Someone held open
the door
for the woman behind
him.
Someone bought a
newspaper
from the vendor in
the lobby,
and, for the next
eighty-seven floors,
scanned the
headlines in the elevator:
"School Dress
Codes vs. a Sea of Bare Flesh";
"In a Nation of
Early Risers, Morning TV is a Hot Market";
"Key Leaders
Talk of Possible Deals to Revive Economy:
Bush is Under
Pressure".
And later, after the
building had inhaled jet fuel,
someone on the
forty-fifth floor,
reached over the
cubicle divider
for the hand of her
co-worker, and together
they joined the
single-file of others
descending the
staircase
in the darkness
and the smoke
and the silence,
While others wearing
uniforms
ascended the
staircase, single-file
without pause
and with purpose.
Someone on floor one
hundred three
called 911 to report
a fire,
to report smoke,
to report difficulty
breathing,
to report stairs
blocked,
and asked to call
his mother.
On the sixty-third
floor,
someone who could
walk
stayed with someone
in a wheelchair
as they waited for
help.
Together.
And on a floor above
the wreckage
shaped by jet
ripping steel and glass,
someone wrapped her
purse around her shoulder
like a sling, hoping,
when she stepped out
into the air,
that her driver's
license would
make it easier to
identify her
.
Someone who loved
her, she who jumped,
looked at the
cloudless sky that morning,
and saw the color of
her eyes.
Nothing can dilute
this grief,
Except, perhaps,
this:
That day strangers
in the street held each other.
And before the
tsunami of dust and ash.
ash and dust,
mingled their voices
into a choir
of words in flight
and words on fire,
thousands made phone
calls
to say, "I love
you,"
to say, "Don't
worry",
to say, "Thank
you".
There were no calls
to challenge,
no messages left
that spoke of hate or revenge.
Is this then what we
mean by Human Nature?
Not that we are
violent,
that we maim, hurt
and hate one another,
But by our Nature,
our final thoughts
are of love and
gratitude:
I love you.
Thanks for
everything.
Every Thing.
I love you.
I love you
Know this: I love
you.