Bittersweet September

Seven years ago today the air was warm, the sun shone brightly on the leaves that were just starting to reveal their fall color, and the air smelled like it does every September in upstate NY: a spicy mixture of late summer flowers, falling leaves, and apples.

Seven years ago today I looked through the open church doors, past the pews filled with our family and friends to the altar where my beloved Brendan waited for me to join him, to spend the rest of my life with him. When I walked down the aisle I wasn't nervous, or jittery, or wondering if I was doing the right thing. Instead I knew, beyond a doubt and for the very first time in my life, that I was doing exactly the right thing. I was bouyant, and I think I floated down the aisle more than walked.

Seven years later life has not disappointed me. I am still bouyant, and even a little giddy at times with the knowledge that Brendan and I belong to one another. If you know him personally you're one of the lucky ones...if not, take my word that he is kind hearted, compassionate, a great friend, and an AMAZING dad. He has a wicked sense of humor, especially compared to his usual reservedness. He is extremely creative, and after seven years of careful grooming I would even say that he has an accomplished sense of adventure. Through our shared life's joys and sorrows he is the one and only person I have wanted to be with, walking side by side. I could not, would not, love another. So Happy 7th Anniversary, my Brendan. I love you.

******

Five years ago Brendan and I lived in Rye, NH, in a little apartment just a mile from the ocean. Our apartment was in a house painted turquoise blue with pink shutters. We had flower beds in front of our windows, and a little stream ran through the backyard.

Five years ago today Brendan and I took the day off to go to the zoo, as I had never been to a zoo before and we thought it would be something fun to do for our second anniversary. The morning was sunny and bright, without a cloud in the sky, and the New Hampshire air smelled more like saltwater than the apples and leaves we were used to in NY. We didn't turn on the tv in the morning, rather we drank our tea and chatted with each other, planning our day in innocent bliss. We finally climbed into the Jeep and started driving up I-95 toward York, Maine, and the much anticipated zoo. As we drove I flipped thruogh the radio stations looking for a good song, but I was irritated that all I could find was news. At some point Brendan yelled "STOP! What did they say? I think we're being bombed!". I think he swerved the Jeep a little, and we listened in horrified silence as the newscaster recounted the morning's events. When we arrived at the zoo Brendan said "Mike works across the street from the Twin Towers. My brother, Mike." And that was the first time I ever saw my husband cry.

We drove away from the zoo without looking back. We rushed home to call Brendan's parents, and when we finally got through we found that they didn't know anything, either. Like the rest of America we turned the tv on and watched the horror, hoping and praying to see Mike's face among the faces on the screen, alive. Hoping and praying that he had made it out, that he would be ok. Like most people I will never forget that day...I remember minute details that should not matter at all, but somehow are emblazoned on my memory: the sun streaming through the window onto the ugly blue utility carpet in defiance of the utter sadness we felt, our landlord clomping by our windows on the wooden sidewalk and shaking his head as he looked at the ground, the deafening quiet on the usually busy street. I'll never forget watching the tears roll down my strong, resilient husband's face as his pain silently seeped from his eyes. There was nothing I could do for him, all I could do was hold him. Never have I felt so helpless and scared, so small.

At some point that day we got the call that Mike had been in contact, that he was ok, and that he was on his way home. We still sat glued to the tv, wanting to look away but unable to. That day will forever be a part of who we are, even though we were hundreds of miles away from ground zero...we became acutely aware that we were among the lucky ones who did not lose a loved one.

*****

Five years later it is quiet in my house. I refuse to watch the president; instead I am having an hour of silence in respect for the dead, and for those who survived but whose lives were destroyed nonetheless. My son is sleeping soundly in his bed, and the dogs' feet are moving in their sleep as they dream of running and playing. Life has gone on, but I remember. Oh, how I wish I could forget.