The streets of Manhattan were a ghost town last night. Empty. Looking for an open restaurant in this city of restaurants, Duane, Kate and I were turned away by a concerned floor manager who wanted his staff to get home as soon as possible. The city was an empty movie lot. New York was gone from its own streets.
This morning, there were more people on the street, but were we ever quiet. And walking slow. Having no where in particular to go, nowhere to be, turned the New York Minute into a funeral procession, hardly any singles on the street, most people with families and groups of two or more. People were close to each other and quiet. At the sidewalk café, there was implicit understanding when they didn’t have chop beef at noon, or home fries, or when we had to make way for the produce to be delivered at the same time as we ate. A sirened vehicle drove down 2nd Ave and everyone quieted to turn and watch it pass.
Everyone is attentive to each other. We look at each other. We listen. We nod at people crying. Look at each other as if we all have had the same secret exposed and there’s nothing to do but search each others’ eyes for absolution.
Tonight, after the pay phone call and the fear, when it had subsided in intensity but lodged itself into me, I saw a couple taping a flier to a light post. I crossed the street to read it. Missing Neighbor. Last Seen 9/11/01. Gregory _____. 26. Red Hair, green eyes. The “Red Hair” was underlined. Probably wearing a polo shirt and khakis, Hilfiger leather belt and shoes.
Details in death. In denial. In every last hope till we know for sure. There, finally, were some of the tears. I had wondered where they receded to today.
Concentration is beyond me, though homework looms. Sense memory in acting class: smell this scent like you’ll never smell it again. This smell of smoke that has been turned by the wind and sent up over Manhattan tonight will not be forgotten.
TV’s on everywhere. People gathered around them. Nothing else matters, in shops, at work. We all understand each others’ silence. The silent nod. The gift of a voice in that greeting.
Yesterday, walking 70 blocks with the rest of lower Manhattan, stunned, quiet and walking. Walking.
. . . . . . . . . . . .
(You can read all of the Memory to Light stories in order on the side bar -–>)
Thanks for reading Day 6 of “Memory to Light: 31 Days of Stories, August 11 – September 11, 2011.” It is an exercise in writing about loss, for the purpose of letting grief wake, live, and pass through the system. Grief is transformation. Story is transformation. Our world could use a some wakeful transformation right now. Take a peek at the introductory post for the full story of what we’re up to.
P.S. Today’s post is from a series of notes I wrote on 9/12/01 and after. It was hard not to stop, now and then, to just write, the experience was so overwhelming — people’s actions and reactions in the streets, the shrines that popped up, strangers spending time together in wonder and angst.
Join me
Consider this project an online story circle. Read a story that moves you. Write your own on your blog. Link it to the comments below, so we can read your piece. If you don’t have a blog, write your story in the comments.
Let your memories live. Let small corners of your grief breathe. Let your loss be swept into the collective experience of people sharing, witnessing, and letting be.
