Chris and I went into the living room and turned on the television. We saw the World Trade Center tower with smoke coming out of it. And within a few minutes we knew what had happened. And then we saw the plane hit the second tower.
We were riveted all morning and past lunch time, watching the horrors unfold before us. In the early afternoon I went to the local grocery store, just a few blocks away. I felt like I was moving in a dream, detached and groggy. I realized I was in shock.
Our son pulled together his most precious objects into his back pack. His baby blanket. His signed first edition of The Longest Day by Cornelius Ryan. Mementos. My husband remembered commuting to New York City on a train filled with people who worked in the World Trade Center, and wondered. How many weeks did uncertainty and fear rule? I don't remember. But America changed that day, and we have reeled unmoored ever since.
I wrote a series of poems.
The Day After the World Changed
By Nancy A. Bekofske
September 12, 2001
What
kind of world would I find today?
The
taste of dust was in my mouth;
My
eyes were red and dry.
The
dull rhythm
Of a
building’s dance of collapse
Resounded
in my ears;
The
dance burned into my vision,
Like
the sun too long observed,
The
slow gathering of downward motion,
Story
after story,
Thousand
of stories,
Stories
that ended that day.
Would
I ever again wake
And
not wonder,
What
kind of world
Will
I find today?
Will
there be chaos today?
Reversal
of fortune, vulnerability?
Bloody
War?
Dancing
in the sky?
The Slow Dance
A
needle pieced an eggshell.
Hell burst out golden red.
A
magician’s gathering of slow smoke filled the air.
The
war god’s companions, Fear and Panic,
Graced
with their presence heroic exploits,
Coupled
with shocked incredulity.
I
write the reflection of time,
The
house of cards raining down,
Raining
a civilization into chaos.
Precious
papers flew for miles,
Sturdy
walls became dust.
Women
and men flew like birds.
Their
arms became wings,
The
air rushing about them
Full
of the dust of their lives,
Their
world’s residence.
Other
became bowels,
The
secret heart buried deep.
The
incredible beauty of summer sun
High
in a blue, empty heaven was
Obscured
by unnatural clouds,
Belied
truth, for night had fallen in the land,
millions
lost in darkness.
Flickering
images told the story
Of a
slow dance, the timeless, fragile beauty.
All
time compressed into a few seconds
As
each floor fell into the next,
Beam
buckling inward,
Desks
and file cabinets and hopes and security
Instantly
reduced
To
cockroach shells,
Settling
into a covering like new snow.
Twisted,
broken, the grand dames
Mere
rubble, reduced to an essence.
Repeated
over and over
This
dance craze of the day,
The
slow decay of seconds
Etched
into the mirror of our eyes.
What We Imagine
Our
child is in the white hospital bed.
There
are tubes and alien machines surrounding him.
We
watch and wait.
There
is red blood, vivid on the white sheets
Like
a beautiful rose.
No,
our child is in the schoolroom,
There
is a blinding light;
Wisdom
is not so enlightening as this light.
There
is a flash of heat.
There
is ash.
No,
our child is playing with friends.
There
is coughing.
There
is headache.
Our
child goes to bed.
Our
child breaks out in death.
No,
our child is called.
Our
child bravely leaves his only home
His
only family.
Our
child is trained to kill.
Our
child falls, he thinks of home, he thinks no more.
No,
our child wakes up in the morning.
Our
child sees the rain.
Our
child remembers the old life,
The
days before fear,
The
security of knowing there were those
Who
would always protect him.
Our
child awakes in the morning.
Our
child imagines
There
is no one to protect him.
Conversation
They
talk of weddings and college.
They
talk of jobs and money.
My
ears burn in resentment.
I
want to talk about death.
I
want to talk about how
I
became a zombie that day,
Detached
from my motions,
A
robot moving without a heart.
I
want to talk about war
And
rumors of war,
And
about peace
And
the illusion of peace.
I
want to talk about the children
And
about fear; especially about fear.
How
it sleeps with you in your bed,
Nestles
into your ear, whispering, whispering
Late
into the night.
I
want to talk about fear taking residence.
They
talk about life.
I
want to talk about death
And
dancing. The dance of the towers
And
the dance of politics
And
the dance of death that day,
Surreal
and strange, the snow of death,
After
the golden red fire of impact.
They
talk about money and work,
And
I want to talk about the dread
Of
war settling into our living rooms
Each
morning and evening, visiting
With
images of destruction and hate,
Daily
becoming less alien,
More
familiar and cozy.
Words
circle ‘round like a hurricane
Ripping
the façade away
Baring
the essential passions
Like
a bone.
 |
| World Trade Center ruins, photo by Spencer Platt |
The Spires
Airy
and proud.
The
remnant backbone of life,
The
skeleton of power.
Architecture
of hope,
110
stories high,
made
of hollow bones and glass,
housing
a world’s hope.
Broken
spires, still proud and tall
Rising
above the chaos below,
Directing
vision upward
Like
a beacon.
And yet somehow I trust that there is also a strain of mercy and compassion that survives, and sometimes even thrives. Stories of sacrifice and courage also came out of 9-11.
There is only one race, the human race, I was taught when I was a girl. The Big Blue Marble photograph of Earth reminds us that we are stewards sharing one miraculous, small Eden.
I continually pray for peace.
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