Renewing the Vow

I always listen to the reading of the names.

Today is September 11, some 22 years after the terrorist attacks that destroyed the World Trade Center.

I was there on that day, part of a crowd that was standing across the street watching the North Tower burn, when the second plane slammed into the South Tower.

My father turned 80 years old on 9/11 and the plan was for me and my sister to him to dinner after I got home from work. That was the plan.

Instead, I spent that long, horrible day trying to get home after the subways were shut down and I joined a endless stream of people walking over the Manhattan Bridge to Brooklyn while the towers burned behind us and fighter jets screamed overhead.

If possible, I like to go there on each anniversary, stand on that same spot across the street, say a prayer for the victims and remind myself how lucky I was to have survived that day when thousands of others didn’t.

I was there on the 20th anniversary, but that didn’t work out this year, which, if I’m being honest, it’s just an excuse.

But the very least I can do is listen to the reading of the names of the victims on TV, and that’s what I’m doing while I write this.

It’s heartbreaking to hear the names read off by family members—some of whom had not been born at the time of the attack—and shocking to see how many of the victims were younger than I was on that day.

I think of all the people who should be here today, all the dreams that never came true, all the relationships, all the special moments that never happened.

And I think of the promise I made to a woman I had met when we took refuge in a local senior center, after a cloud of toxic smoke rolled through the city when the towers collapsed.

Not Today, Devil

I swore I would stop complaining, stop being envious of other people, and that I would give thanks for every single day and never complain about anything ever at all.

That was the plan. And you can probably guess how that one worked out.

This morning I caught myself whining about something in the distance past and wondered what the hell was wrong with me? Don’t you remember that promise you made over 20 years?

Can’t you hear those names and understand that there’s a life behind every single one of them and they were all brutally cut short?

I told my auntie about my tinhorn vow, and she was sympathetic.

“I’m sure the Almighty is used to it,” she said.

Yes, I imagine He is.

The truth is that for the speeches and the chatter, we, as a society, have learned nothing from 9/11.

I don’t like saying that, but a quick scan of human history over the last two decades will confirm that we have quickly forgotten any lessons from that day.

Meanwhile, God witnesses the vile deeds of His creations, listen to their pathetic excuses and counterfeit contrition, and then gears up for another day of the same old crap.

I thought I’d try and keep my promise for just one day--—this day—and see where it went from there. And then my printer went haywire, and I quickly followed suit.

Not a very encouraging start, but I cheered up after getting a text from my sister who interrupted her vacation to see how I was doing.

So, I’m back on track now. God willing, next year I’ll go back to my spot across the street from where the towers stood and say my prayers with a pure heart.

Stay safe.