There is not a single time I approach the New York City skyline from across the water that I don’t scan the horizon for the Twin Towers. I know they’re gone. In aesthetic appeal, I never preferred them over the grandeur of the Empire State or that siren of architectural inspiration, the Chrysler Building. But the look of them grew on me in the decades after they were built and I always respected their presence. More than that, they belonged. Seven years later, I can no longer instantly locate the exact spot they stood in the distance, and the wrong of their absence still hangs on the skyline.
This year, the pizza lunch sponsored by my school’s administration fell on 9/11. It was one of those ‘it has to be that day or we can’t get it in before finals’ things and at least one student that I know of boycotted the lunch considering it disrespectful. She brought her protest to Blondie and I as heads of the student council. We told her she should do as her heart guided her, but we would not be involving ourselves or the council. There is no right or wrong when feelings run so raw.
At the start of the luncheon, the librarian of our school stood at the front of the room and spoke with emotion. He had been a priest in his homeland, a country that no longer exists outside his childhood memories. He spent part of his adult years as a political prisoner. I cannot imagine what he endured. I wouldn’t want to make him say. He looked out over the quiet room of staff and students and said, “I live in America.” Then gesturing with his arms open, he said simply, “I have freedom.”
His words gave me a rush of chill and then warmth. It was a feeling I remembered from six years ago when Husband and I visited Daughter while she was studying abroad in Italy. Her group was the first one sent overseas by her university after 9/11, and every fearful instinct I had in January 2002 when she departed was beaten down by her assertion that if we don’t go then the terrorists have won. If it were all only that simple.
Husband and I visited her in Perugia in March of 2002. We spent our days exploring the winding cobblestone alleys and Etruscan arches, wandering into picturesque shops that offered artisan jewelry and pottery and impeccable Italian fashion. During the evening promenade of social activity along the Corso Vanucci, the horror of what had happened so recently in our city seemed far away in distance and reality.
One afternoon, while Husband sipped espresso at an outdoor café, I walked into a leather goods store to look at purses. The young saleswoman who approached me responded that she spoke English when I greeted her in my imitation Italian. I asked her how she knew I was American. “You have a way,” she said, making it sound like a compliment. She had a beautiful smile and an accent I couldn’t identify. She asked where I lived and I told her New York. She placed her hand on mine resting on the counter between us. “I am so sorry for what happened in your city. I am so sorry.” Her eyes welled up.
I thanked her for her expression of sympathy and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “I can’t place your accent,” I said. “Where are you from?” “Sarajevo,” she said quietly. And then my eyes filled up as well.
One Word is enough for Daughter’s Featured Fotos
color
flapping
fallen
doll