We Remember

A line of trees and brush stands sentry at the back edge of my yard.  That part lies in shadow much of the day; even sunlight is barred admittance.  When I look at it, generally it evokes the sole thought that the area needs a good mucking – unintended shrubs encroaching daily, organic debris falling from the trees and gathering by the minute, etc.  But yesterday, to my delight, a bulb planted by a someone (not me) had shot up – flowered, without my notice.  The bloom was creamy white, unexpected innocence against darkness, ever nearer creeping.  This morning the bloom had multiplied; now there are three.

I glanced at the calendar this morning, and the date startled me.  Fifteen years.  I remember where I was that morning.  I remember what it felt like to see the footage replayed to cement a new world in our collective memory.  I remember what it felt like to hear the journalists repeat the stories again and again and again, disbelief sewn into every sentence.  I’m guessing you do, too.

I lived in Arlington, Virginia, that day.  I opened my front door, could smell the Pentagon burning, could have seen the smoke if I’d walked down the block and around the building in front of mine.  I could not bear to see it then.  Instead, I closed the door and cried.  My memories are nothing, I’m sure, compared to the those who lived it, those who could not help but see the devastation,  those who lost someone they loved.

My hands have touched the memorials at New York and Arlington.  Water cascading over black granite squares, red granite cantilevers set into the ground.  Names of the lost, all of them.  Silence.  Breathable heartbreak.  Profound declaration, “We will never forget.”  Promise me we haven’t.  Promise me we won’t.

On days like today, days singed on their edges by tragedy, days echoing voices lost to our previously unimaginable, gentle reminders arrive unbidden that hope remains. Because He loves us, those reminders come in forms we individually comprehend.   Mine came as white flowers flourishing under a gloomy canopy.   My prayer today is that you find your “white flower”, too.