I had a whole post planned about how I wasn’t going to write a traditional 9/11 post like everyone and their brother seems to be doing (mostly because look… I saw it once, I don’t want to see photos of it again), but I veered off into all sorts of things and eventually wasn’t even making any sense. Mostly my post, which I may try to reconstruct later, was about how 9/11 was just a few weeks before my father got sick (“got sick” … what kind of euphemism is that? Like, someone sneezed on him and he came down with cancer?) and how if I talk about 9/11, I also have to talk about going to the Cowboy Junkies a few days later with Jenn, and the repercussions of some things that were happening with her then, and then my dad getting diagnosed with cancer, and Tim and I started dating, and then my father died, and then the rest of a horrible story involving some friends and infidelity playing out like the worst Shakespearean drama, and then having to get my dog put to sleep… and all in all it was about six or seven months of life repeatedly kicking me in the head, and it all began with 9/11. So to me it’s not just THAT, it’s everything that surrounded that.
GAH. Here I go again.
So let me just play you a song, instead. It’s about Mark Bingham, one of the courageous men on Flight 93 who stood up and bravely did what needed to be done. While I tried to be brave for those seven months, it doesn’t hold a candle to the last seven minutes of his life.
A Day in the Life
Maker of thrown, hand-built, and slipcast ceramics; dyer and spinner of yarn; writer of science fiction; watcher of people and nature.