So here we are again looking down the barrel of yet another 9/11.
I forgot about it last year – probably because I’ve got the luxury of not having lost someone that day in NYC. This morning, though, I re-connected in an unexpected way:
Bella hopped out of the truck and navigated her way to the crossing guard, then across the street, up the stairs, and into her school. As I watched her disappear, the other children weaved in and out of the driveway, saying goodbye to their families and bus drivers.
The crossing guard blew his whistle.
The horns honked.
And even though I’ve seen it all a million times before, this morning I couldn’t help but sit there and cry as I watched the old man, who always walks with his grandson to the edge of the block, kisses him goodbye, and waves until the boy is gone. This was because ten year-old Frankie DeVito’s voice was in the background, filling the airwaves of NPR’s StoryCorps with his memories of losing his grandpa when the towers fell. Continue reading
