SEPTEMBER 11TH
Because I don't live in New York, it seems as if I should not attempt to walk on ground that appears both sacred to me and off limits. But that day, like a makeshift banner read in Jerusalem, we were all Americans; we were all New Yorkers.
The first plane had just struck when I drove into the parking lot at work. Reports on the radio were weak--in fact, I had the impression it was a small aircraft. I was dumbfounded to learn that it was a passenger plane. And then, it seemed nearly simultaneous, one of the developers next to me cried out that a second plane had hit the other tower.
"No way!" many said as we made our way to his desk, only to see the headline and the footage for ourselves.
"This is war." I said. Many turned and looked at me.
But what else could you call it.
The day was spent standing around work cubicles, watching footage over and again of the second tower being hit and of the towers crumbling. I recall the lump in my throat that lingered and grew painful when I thought of the tens of thousands of people who could have perished and the fact that there were families at home who would always be waiting for that person they love to return home.
When I arrived home that evening. My wife was sitting on the porch watching the kids--my son was riding his bike up and down the walk; my one-and-a-half-year-old daughter was standing nearby. As I got out of the car, she recognized me. As is her daily custom, she ran up to me, her smile as large as her face, and jumped up into my arms. I shed tears and I felt guilty. How would you comfort a child who expects their dad or mom? How would you explain the phrase"not coming home?"
Three weeks later, I ran the St. George Marathon in a city of the same name in Southern Utah, approximately one hour north-east of Las Vegas. The National Red Cross was there. They were offering the opportunity to run on behalf of one of the people who lost their lives at the World Trade Center, the Pentagon, or in Pennsylvania. The funds would go toward the families of these lost souls. My wife and I both signed up and went about trying to pick a name.
They had pages and pages of names, each name printed out on a sticker that you could stick on your racing bib. After you selected a name, you gave one half of the sticker to the Red Cross and kept the other half. Then, you could look up the name you selected in a directory of sorts and find out information about the name.
Thumbing through the pages, I was looking for someone with my name, Michael Parker, or Michael, or Parker. But I came across the name of Michael L. Bocchino and selected it. He was one of the firefighters lost in the World Trade Center.
I won't easily forget running those 26 miles with Michael L. Bocchino on my chest and in my heart. Around mile 8, one of the townsfolk from the wonderfully supportive town of Veyo was blasting the Lee Greenwood anthem "Proud to be an American." I lost composure and sobbed. For the first time since the tragedy, all of the things I had bottled inside--the great sorrow from the event, the gratitude toward those who helped save people, the sense of sudden realization that the world was forever different--found their way out.
I have so many more thoughts about September 11th. But today, these were those thoughts--the names that are still quite sacred to say; the husbands, wives, sons, daughters, uncles, aunts, nephews, nieces, and grandparents who have an unfillable void in their lives; running on behalf of a fallen firefighter; and of coming home that day.
For thoughtful experiences and commentary, please visit Absit Invidia and The Head Heab.
THE NAMES
Last year, September 6th, in front of a special session of Congress, the US Poet Laureate, Billy Collins, stood in front of the assemly and delivered his dedication to those who lost their lives in the tragedy of this day two years ago. Simply titled The Names, it captures the sense of loss resulting from 9/11. What I most admire about the poem is the manner in which it is written; he treats his subject matter with care and a sense of reality--the names come alive to us because he ties them into things we touch or see everyday. Moreover, I appreciate the fact that he does concentrate on the lost souls; there is no touch of anger or retribution (or the like) as some of the poems I've heard being read on radio shows and observances. I think this portrays a great respect on Collins behalf and towards those who lost their lives and the many souls forever changed by the tragedy. Collins has created a timeless, beautiful piece of poetry. To read, please click here.
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