It is raining in New York today. It is raining hard and the winds are high. The surf is rough. It seems apropos for my mood this day. This Day of Remembrance.
I purposefully needed silence. It seemed the best way for me to honor those who were taken from this World on September 11, 2001. It is hard to believe 8 years have gone by and we still believe violence is the answer. There is a poll on facebook (and I am sure other social networks) asking whether September 11th should be a holiday.
I did not answer the poll as many of my “friends” were answering in the positive and my answer stating “no” seemed unfeeling without an explanation. I do not think it should be a holiday. Look what happened to Memorial Day. It is now the unofficial start of Summer and sales at Wal-Mart for barbeque aprons and coolers. The beaches open. Veterans of Foreign War stand in front of Waldbaums selling plastic poppies to remember the veterans who passed. We toss a dollar in the can and feel as if we have contributed to the memory of the dead while carrying a red, white and blue sheet cake to the annual Memorial Day Pool Party at Jim’s house.
Will September 11th become the unofficial closing of summer? Celebrated by many but the meaning lost for just a surviving few? I do not know. I don’t think I want to know.
So, in my silence I took a ride in my van to the Boardwalk. I drove up and parked just so that I could see the surf pound and not get wet by the rain driving sideways against the passenger side of the van. A few runners went by as they touched the iron rail in their ritual of finalizing their two and ¼-mile stretch of wooden planks.
Then I saw him. A man I first thought was a local cop. He then moved and I read his shirt, FDNY. He looked out at the angry Atlantic standing between two benches as the rain just continued to fall. I felt I was intruding on his silent grief. New York City Fireman have a unique bond. They are made of stuff the Universe sprinkles on a select few.
A runner passed, touched the rail and flitted by. He stood so still. He looked up and let the rain attempt to wash some of his sadness. He bent down at the bench, pulled out a can of Budweiser from a black plastic deli bag, and opened it saluting the water, saluting his friends. He seemed so young to me. He drained the can, walked it over to the nearby garbage can, and then tried to light a cigarette between drops.
I felt compelled to get out of my stupid warm dry van and say something to him. He turned and noticed me being a voyeur on his Remembrance. I nodded. We did not share any particular moment just an acknowledgement that there was another person nearby. I felt so inadequate I couldn’t do something to help him through this moment. We were both so isolated even though we were so close.
I drove home and needed to do something. So I zipped in the house, grabbed a towel, and returned to the same spot, hoping to offer some silly trivial comfort like a dry towel.
He was already gone not even a sign of the deli bag that held the beer. The surf was still high. The waves continued to be angry; as so many are when senselessness overwhelms the silence.
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