Today is September 11th and I couldn’t let it go by. There is so much to remember, so many people who lost their lives and so many who did all they could to help. And so many of those helpers, those angels, are still losing their lives for their efforts.
I don’t want to forget or pretend that nineteen years is a sufficient amount of time to devote to this memory—that we no longer need to stop and acknowledge all that happened on that day—the eleventh of September in the year 2001.
We can’t forget. Just as we can’t forget all our soldiers who fought for us; who died to save the life and the freedoms we now take for granted. As if those souls do not matter anymore. Deep down we know how much we owe them for the gift they gave us; the gift to live our lives free. There are no words that can really express that gratitude.
In 2018, I wrote about a memory, an experience that still haunts me. I decided to repost it here, today:
The sun was bright and the sky a perfect blue as I emerged from the shopping court below the World Trade Towers. The plaza opened up in front of me and I started walking between the towers. It was a perfect day.
As I was walking I heard this beautiful music. I looked around but couldn’t see where it was coming from. I continued looking and listening to this divine music, amazed by its splendor. I looked at the faces of people walking by, but they didn’t seem to notice. Yet my heart soared with the angelic sound that encircled me. I kept looking about. Why was no one else looking for the source of this amazing sound? Instead, they moved with determination to their destinations. Why? The sound I was hearing was so extraordinary it brought tears to my eyes.
As I scanned the plaza, it occurred to me that the volume of the music hadn’t changed. I turned around and slowly took my purse off my shoulder. I brought it to my ear and heard the angelic sound coming from my bag. It was a tape recorder that had turned on in my purse.
As people passed me going in all directions, I realized I was the only one who could hear it. My heart filled again, but this time it was with sadness; no one else could hear the angels.
When I remember that day and then think about all the death and trauma that occurred one year later on 9-11-01, I worry that sharing this memory is inappropriate. Yet the thought of that angelic sound that seemed to fill the plaza makes me feel that the angels were there on that awful day to catch those beautiful souls in their arms and escort them to a better place.
I realize this is just a vision, my vision, but it brings me comfort. If there is a chance this memory can comfort even one person, then perhaps that is the reason I’ve needed to share it.
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Having a party again is simply wonderful. Every summer, Mark, my husband, makes a gigantic paella and we invite friends to watch the process (trust me, it is a show) and eat the amazing results. The party always occurs between the 4th of July and the 14th, Bastille Day. Are you wondering why we make a paella to . . .