Beneath September

September 11, 2016

On CNN, the reporter interviews a priestfrom Manhattan, asks him what long term effect9/11 has had on us all. The priest saysFor fifteen years we've all been walking aroundwith a lump in our throats.

I was an ocean away,in Ireland, already afternoon,in the stands of the Galway Races.The boys we were meeting had justheard the news on a taxi's radio.

Inside, people placing their betsat each glass window. All the TV screensthat tracked the race flickered offand the news came on, and we hadbought Guinnesses,

and we held them, half full, unawarethey were in our hands as the second plane hit–or a replay of the second plane hitting,again and again. I was in Ireland,in the country four of my great grandparents,

Honora and John, Esther and Samuel,had left for Ellis Island.Ten days earlier, my parentshad driven me through New York Cityto the Newark Airport.

From the backseat as we crossedthe George Washington Bridge, the Towers. Ten days later,Flight 93 would also take off from Newark.This was the last place I would see

my father alive, who would diein his sleep that November.There he stood, bottom of the escalator,in a light green polo shirt, khaki shorts,boat shoes and white socks pulled

halfway up his shins, waving.I no longer remember where he said he waswhen the planes hit–perhaps in a vandelivering flowers, his newretirement job. We will keep asking

each year where were you?until no one was anywhere,until a new world grows up,pushes up beneath September.My mother, up late one night

watching the news–Ground Zero,family members still there, xeroxed copiesof the missing gripped in their hands.My mother, falling asleep to this,asked God if there's anything she can do

to relieve their suffering –to let it be done.The next morning she found my father,cold, unmoving in the bed.I flew home for his funeral,

leaving Ireland before the semester ended,before a planned trip to Amsterdam,my plane ticket exchanged for a flightback to Newark. The embersof the Towers still smoldering

though I didn't look out the window.Several of my aunts and uncles, my sistermet me there. In a rented limo,we rode back to our old white housein Connecticut, rode through

a tangle of thru-ways, potholes,we rode home through the flags.In my memory they were everywhere–draped from every possible bridge,and homemade USA banners and posters,

some in tatters. I craned my neck,the flags hung from the balconiesof the steep apartments.Uncle John, sitting across from me,noticed my noticing, lifted his hands,

palms open to the grey canyons, saidIt's been incredible–you've missed it all.