Not wanting to play into the media hype surrounding the ten year commemoration of that atrocious day, I nevertheless awaken this morning with a sense of dread.
After coffee, Mike decides on an epic today and heads out to explore new mountaintops. I hug him a tad longer than usual, and he lets me, unaware of the critic in my head judging me—even now—for not speaking what was in my heart last night as the two of us watched 9/11 survivor stories. I wanted to tell him how inexpressibly grateful I am that he was not in the Pentagon that day, that he was able to return to me and our two young sons late that night, that he could share some of my anger and fear as the truth of the day unfolded, . . . that he was still around to keep me safe.
The words never made it to my mouth. Instead, they tumbled around in my brain combining in different ways, retreating when the critic deemed them unworthy, ultimately remaining unspoken while I cried for those on TV. I went to bed—the words still tumbling but mute—with a heavy heart, feeling like a failure.
He leaves by nine—will this number, this month ever be just about September?—and I welcome the sautéed onion tears that spill into the sauce for tonight’s lasagna.