10 years...

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As September 11th approached, I thought I might post a little about how I spent that day ten years ago in New York.  Yet, I can seem to muster up the words.  Every year, as this date rolls around, I get a tad anxious, sad, and oddly nostalgic.  I have no desire to revisit some of those feelings from that day.  Even as years have passed, to tell someone how I spent that day, feels like I'm retelling a nightmare instead of actual events.  I was extremely lucky that day compared to some, having only to experience things from Brooklyn, never taking that 12pm A train that runs under the WTC on the way to work that I usually did on Tuesdays.  The debris still floated in towards us though, letterhead on business paper leaving a lasting image in my brain for years.  It took moving to Denver to rid myself of the nervous fear I would experience every time I heard helicopters overhead.  I'm relieved yet saddened not to be in New York City on this important anniversary.  Being with the folks that held my hand through those times.  They've all moved on as well.  So, instead, I will post something I wrote on the 5th anniversary, mere months after the birth of my first child.  Some of it still rings true....

September 11, 2006

Never have I felt so displaced since moving to Denver than I do today...September 11th.  My first 9-11 spent away from New York City.  I feel so deeply attached to the Big Apple on this day, and I feel strange not to be there now.  I'm filled with a mixture of emotions this morning...sorrow, nostalgia, concern for the future.  I am saddened to think of Mr. B being raised in a post-9-11 world of "terror alerts", no beverages on airplanes, and yearly tributes to the worst terrorist disaster on American soil.  On this day, I remember with vivid clarity the sense of fear I felt, not knowing what was going on in the world, of what might happen next, and what life would be like in the coming months.  I don't think I've ever been more afraid or uncertain then I was that morning, huddled with my close friends, Mollie, Jenny and Jean, in a dance studio in Brooklyn, watching the smoke unfurl from the Trade Center.   I can't help but think of my roommate, Sarah, on this anniversary, as we ran to the roof of our apartment building when the second tower fell, only to be hit by debris and ash.  We spent the day glued to the television, drinking endless pots of coffee that didn't help our nerves, and trying to contact loved ones with our spotty phone service to let them know we were OK, ending the long day camped out in the living room, afraid to be alone, trying to fall asleep amidst the sounds of helicopters and F-16's flying overhead.  And I had it easy, chalking it up to the luck of statistics that I didn't know anyone who lost their lives.   I can only imagine what loved ones of victims must feel this day, or every day for that matter. 

And as I feel a bit down today, I have my beautiful son to take care of.  A bald, chubby, 12-pounds of wonder and amazement, truly the stuff that the "meaning of life" is made of.  I have such high hopes for him, for his future, and I hope it is one filled with opportunity, optimism and peace.  He has no concept of what this day in history means, and he won't for a long time.  His only thoughts for the day are pure and simple...play with toys, eat, poop, nap when he feels like it and smile at mommy and daddy.  No ill feelings towards anyone, no worries, no judgement, just that wonderful childish joy.