When Heather invited us all to Take Back 9-11 and move on, I sat here for perhaps thrifty minutes. Eyes slowly unfocused, the white screen fuzzing away as dark images swirled through my mind, morphing into some bizarre collage of thoughts, of pieces, of blocks of memories. About David B., a firefighter I knew in fourth grade who I dared to eat a slice of sicilian pizza covered with an entire jar of garlic salt, and who promised to marry me someday.
About the numerous police officers in the neighborhood who offered me candy and magic tricks when I visited the station. The neighbor who was late for work, exiting the subway station just as the first plane hit, and then immediately turning around. And the neighbor who went in early and never made it back at all.
My mother, huddled in her apartment, terrified, and my three-month-old son sleeping in his crib, completely unaware that the sky was falling.
Later that night, as I sat stunned, watching the towers fall over and over and over again, I looked down at my contentedly nursing son, and added more blocks to my personal wall; wondering what kind of world we brought him into, wondering if he would make it to see five or six, wondering if we would ever be brave enough to give him brothers and sisters; knowing that we would never be able to protect him fully, no matter how many blocks we stacked; no matter where we lived or how many first aid kits we bought.
But life, no matter what, does go on. It is strong; it is brave; it is messy. It bursts through the strongest walls, one tendril at a time. Now, these years later, our life has gone on. There two additional people in the world, in our home; one of whom is gleefully playing with a towers of blocks at my feet. And so, as soon as I type the last sentence, I’ll go and join him. And when the blocks fall, we will clap our hands and laugh, knowing that there is always the promise of building them back up again.