Posts Tagged ‘memories of 9/11’

All the way to the building this morning a voice in my head keeps step with my feet. I am not equipped, it says.

I am not equipped.

I am not equipped.

It is referring to my inability to deal with the Virginia Tech shootings. Nothing inside me to rationalize that act. Nothing inside to not let it get to me, shake me deep down, frighten me, make me wonder why any of us brings children into this world, ships them off to college, watches them die. Brutal. Senseless.

We have the right adjectives. Not the right mechanisms to deal.

My mother-in-law turned to me on Sunday, we were sitting in Em’s guitar recital, and said “I weighed 112 pounds when Jo was born.” We’d been talking about cleaning out closets. She was wearing a beautiful Mexican woven shirt that brought out the green and purple in her eyes.

“One hundred and twelve pounds,” I said, “I can’t imagine.”

“Well, David had died,” she said, “and I couldn’t eat anything.” David is–was–Jim’s younger brother by 15 months. He died when Jim was six. Leukemia.

I am not equipped. I would wither and die myself. I would go on a rampage myself. No, I would never, ever do that.

I remember the morning the airplanes flew into the towers. I was driving up the hill to work. I turned around, turned my car around and went back home. Called all my staff, told them to go home.

I remember the March day we started the war in Iraq. We’d been advised at work not to talk about it. We’re a multinational company. People of all colors, nationalities, religions. I walked through my day wanting to scream, It’s war, you fools!!

I am not equipped. I go through my day, do my work. I want to cry.

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