I picked up the Denver Post and unexpectedly cried; I didn't think reading about something I've thought about every single day for the past ten years would move me to tears.
I've been watching Twitter this morning; some are posting their remembrances of 9/11, others are reporting their experiences at New York Fashion Week. A minority are tweeting their normal, everyday things -- they seem to be going about their business as usual.
Once upon a time, I would have judged how everyone responded to this anniversary. When it comes to mourning, I've long felt that no one does it "right."
I'm glad that tendency seems to be behind me.
I chased a fly with the Dustbuster. I caught and set him free.
I'm thinking about the peach tart I'm making later today.
I don't know how to peel a peach.
I don't know what to make for dinner.
I'm curious if there's something else I should be feeling, or doing.
I guess I'm uncomfortable with my response (or lack thereof) to this day. Part of me thinks I should be making Pronouncements, saying Important Things with Capital Letters.
But the truth is that I still feel very tiny and vulnerable and sad. I can't use words as a cover or shield.
I wish I had something to say about how my life changed ten years ago, but I don't.
I can't come up with a metaphor, or find a poetic phrase, to summarize sorrow.
So I will wish everyone well.
