In Memoriam (A Brief Blog) · 9:54am Sep 11th, 2015
Is it not obvious?
At this point, perhaps it has become obsolete to even blog about today. Yet at the same time, I still hold some responsibility to partake in the memories.
(That was in 2007, but still relevant image)
Here's a poem that I composed a a year ago, detailing an old experience of mine, back in 2011.
Walking down the streets of NYC three years ago,
I encountered a common road,
Filled with the faces of people of different regions and countries,
My mother and father ahead, my brother behind.
For some time we walked, till we reached our destination;
A museum, of lapis-blue. It's walls were tinted
A dull grey, of dust and ash.
On the sides was painted a timeline of a day;
A tragic day for all the world to have experienced.
In the course of minutes I saw the history of that day,
And I was amazed by it, yet did not know it as others had known it,
As others had experienced it.
For, to me it was only a day, as any other day in modern history,
Screams and gunshots and the clashing of metals became the norm in this post-Day world.
We left the museum to travel to our main desire:
A glass-covered lot, in a large section of land,
Barren, cracked, and wounded, a scar that would never heal.
A man in uniform, dark shades and a loaded gun at his side checked us in;
I glanced at him briefly, and saw a look of burden on his face.
I was whisked through the turntable.
I fast-walked through a tarp-covered tunnel, bored and impatient,
Kicking the ground, each step growing duller and duller in my head;
My brother, just the same, glancing around, desperate to feel entertained.
As we traveled deeper, the normally loud, open streets of New York to fade
Into a peaceful silence; Diving into a secluded preserve.
A breach at the end of the tunnel, and daylight shone on us,
Light and dark, familiar and foreign.
Any outside weather completely stopped,
The winds and clouds vanishing. The coming storm
Predicted by the weatherman seemed improbable.
We walked on, dirt and gravel crunching quietly,
Traveling in silence, sensing the magnitude.
My brother and I put aside our usual bickering
For just this once.
A group of teenage girls,
Texting and gossiping earlier,
Were quieted; not by the guards, but somehow by themselves.
A toddler, who had been wailing before, was silenced, not by the mother nor father,
But by his own free will.
How could such a place be so powerful? I thought.
I saw a single tree, buried slightly in a tiny patch of dirt,
With a plaque saying:
"The last surviving tree of the September 11th attacks"
Finally, we reached a large section of land. In the middle were two erected
Fountains. Inscribed on each, with a golden sheen,
Were the names of the 3000 or more people, who had perished on that terrible day.
Waterfalls spewed from the insides, splashing into the pit of each fountain,
Always coming back, always being recycled, being reused . . .
These two fountains, symbols of the Twin Towers, served as powerful reminders
Of the cruelty of the world. For the first time in my life, I understood what a loss
Of innocence meant.
The happy-go-lucky attitude preteens have left,
Replaced with frightening maturity.
A man of about sixty knelt before one of the names;
He shook, terribly and silently, and I wanted to comfort him,
To help him, to make him feel joy again;
But somehow I knew that I could never do that. I might never—and I hope never—have to
Experience such pain, such anguish.
We stayed for a while. I was not exactly admiring, nor reminiscing, but thinking,
Realizing, enduring, and learning;
Would such an event have happened to me on a personal scale,
I would have broke down,
Just like this man who knelt and cried silent tears,
Just like the thousands who mourned the world over,
The parents who lost their sons and daughters to fire and smoke;
The children who lost a dad, a mom, a grandmother, grandfather;
The friends who lost a lifelong companion;
The country that lost its invincibility,
The world that had watched as its greatest sibling
Was decimated by the demons of her soul.
I imagined the twisted steel, the burned rubble,
Hiding the bodies of countless victims;
The brave men and women who died to save them;
The great smoke, brown and deadly, enveloping the streets;
The buildings that collapsed, one by one, a plane for each;
The fires, the flames, the burns, the scrapes;
The darkness that covered The City that Never Sleeps.
Finally, we had to go.
But we stayed quiet.
The pitter patter of rain grew closer with each step, forcing us to open our umbrellas.
Dark and light, dark and light,
A place for mourning, a place for a fight,
Against all odds, to preserve what we hold most dear,
Liberty and Justice to persevere.
But once a year, we must do what's right,
And lay down our weapons, our war, our fight,
To remember those who gave us an incentive
To do what was needed and take the initiative.
The sounds of gunfire in the soldier's ear
Is nothing like respect we must adhere;
To those who have fallen,
To those whom we've lost,
Into the rubble, the stone, the rust;
To those who sacrificed their lives and future,
To make us fight A War On Terror;
We salute you, brave men and brave women,
Who made us realize the world's true villain.
So when we reach the place called Heaven,
Let us always remember the day, nine-eleven.
Hear hear, my friend, and what a beautiful poem and fitting tribute to all those we lost fourteen years ago. May we always remember them and honor them, even if we did not know them personally, for they were people just like us, doing what they did from day to day, just as we are now. They may be gone, but they are never forgotten.
And may we also honor those who now fight to keep us safe, and who have lost their lives doing so. For they felt so strongly about this country and its people that they took up arms to defend it and us. Thank you to all the servicemen and women out there.