September 11, 2006

Inevitably, life goes on. The media has started circling, respectful vultures treading the water with webbed feet, a pool that has for the last five years only been broken by teardrops and hurricanes. Some of us still live in flooded homes, sewage seeping under the doors and engorging the alleyways to peek through the windows. Others of us have long abandoned our shelters and have tried to rebuild something atop the water's reflection. But imagine this: a few of us have never ducked our heads below the water, waded the shallows, dived into the mud to look for picture frames and buried pets. A new generation emerges that will learn our shock and grief through history books. Sadly and undoubtedly, a new edition probably surfaced months after the fateful planes hit the World Trade Center. The media hound the literal and figurative blood-money, encapsulating emotion into paragraphs, soundbites. I pass no judgment for thus far, the hunters know what it is like to be victim. But what will happen when this next generation grows up? How will they feel? How can they feel? Optimism carries the winter's lantern, but I fear it may lead us down folly's path. My voice carries no accusation, but I offer these words of warning to renew a lease on the protection of our lake of memories. No whisper is unheard. 09.10.06

Thoughts from previous years can be found here on my personal website.