Prompt: 9/11/01: Why remember?
Six years ago today I woke up on the wrong side of my soul--the palpable darkness of the morning hung about my front door and within me as I left the single-wide to feed horses.
In the barn it was grey boards and dust, old hay, shadows and the glare of the light at the end of the hall. I felt oppressed, but for no particular reason. Driving home I listened to an NPR radio essay critiquing George W. Bush's lingual blunders. That was the last memory until Bridgette Arroyo was on the phone with me later, lighter on in my kitchen: a plane had hit the World Trade Center.
All else belongs to us all; my memories of 9/11 and yours are all part of the dust and ashes of glass, beams, bodies, and office equipment that the camera person wiped off the lens so we could witness collapse.
My oldest son was seven then. After school he brought out a battery-powered fighter plane to play with. He must have intuited what responding to militant criminality would involve.
A problem is that leaders, both inept and corrupt, both courageous and circumspect, will always do things that irritate and enrage; they may defend their choices, or they may only listen and hold their course.
Remembering 9/11/01 is like remembering 9/11/07; it's the same day, six years later.