Is it my physical proximity? Is there something wrong with me?
I am walking around in a state of fear and sorrow the likes of which I don’t believe I could have imagined before Tuesday. Only I just can’t seem to cry. At all. I just want the release and the health of crying to pour down on me, pour out of me.
I don’t know when or why they will come. I expect at an awkward and “inappropriate” time, of course. And it’s not as though the lack of tears is making me a highly effective person. I keep on sleeping; I lie down and don’t know what to do, even though there are needs awaiting my attention.
I cannot be physically separated from my children. I went to work yesterday; I lasted a bit over two hours I think; then the pull to get back downtown with my babies and my husband was gravitational in its imperative. My sense of time and days and priority are all out of whack, but for knowing that my babies need me, and that I need to be with them, close to them, to stay in my trafficless National Guard populated patch of the world.
Midtown is worse. People in suits and ties walking around like what they are doing matters. I prefer the silence and suspension of normal activity where I live; it seems so much more appropriate. In spite of no phone service (I never knew how much that could bother me) and Pathmark looking like some kind of field headquarters, this is home for me; and it is where I need to be right now. (Mail was delivered yesterday; and my new computer was delivered, miraculously.)
We brought down our candles last night to the makeshift alter in the middle of our courtyard; we lit them; we added them to the rest. One of our security guards placed a small flag in the midst of this testament to our hope and unity.
Even within a mile of ground zero, the human spirit struggles to proclaim itself hopeful and loving and proud.
LOVE to all.