(This is not the first thing we did ... but in view of yesterday, this is what I choose to post first.)

Also Titled: 9/11 Watching a Friend Remember her Friends

I recently went to NYC with two friends. My friend Barb is (like me) not from New York but (unlike me) she's become fairly adept at taking her visiting friends and family to tour around NYC. My friend Linda has lived in New York City (or nearby) for about 25 years. I cannot understand the layout of New York City so I was simply enjoying following my friends around. We do not live down there and I only visit about three times a year. While we were out, Barb convinced Linda to swing by St. Paul's Chapel.



Linda admitted she had not been down there since 9/11. Barb told her there were many mementos. Linda decided that since I had my new camera with me, it would be a good photo op for me. I was snapping shots of the city and content with whatever came into view. I think they were also needing a break from the heat and from worrying over whether or not I was going to trip (again) or get run over while photographing everything in sight.

The moment we walked in, we were overcome. It was good to be cooler. We sat down. We were not ready to look at the mementos and photos but ... it was not because of the heat.

The items on display, I am certain, represent only a very small handful of the items left at and on the fence of the church in memory of friends and family. The church faced the Twin Towers. Still, no one spoke out in normal tones. Everyone was hushed. Even on a random Thursday, almost seven years later, there were people in the chapel.


Linda is a storyteller. She quietly began to tell about the day. She was at work. From her office, she could see the skyline of Manhattan (aka a part of NYC). She saw the smoke. She knew she was losing friends. She went home to be with her daughter.



I could not leave the story. I could not leave and wander about as Linda's tears began to slip down her face. They were the kind of tears that sprinkle down ... a gentle, healing sort of tears ... not the violent sobbing of first finding out. I tried to photograph the chapel's beauty while sitting there and a few of the mementos. And Linda continued with her story.

She told of her friends who were lost as they were husbands and fathers. She told of her friends as widows and mothers. She told of the care the children are receiving. She told about what it was like to wait for over a year to have just one portion of one bone bring closure.

As Linda talked, she became more beautiful with every falling tear. There was a softness in her love for them. There was beauty in the love of her friends in every role life had brought them. Her face and voice reflected their beauty, their love.

It was getting late, I needed to hurry if I was going to photograph any of the memorials. I lifted my camera again. I wanted to take a portrait of Linda. I could not, would not interrupt her to ask (she would not have said yes) and I would not just snap a shot. It would have been an invasion.



I made a quick tour but now I could not bring myself to look closely at the mementos. More, I couldn't bring myself to photograph them closely. I felt I was on sacred ground and invading everyone's intimate expression of love to/about their loved ones. Most of all, I did not trust myself to stay together if I did examine them.

We walked outside to leave. The skies were getting ready to rain on us. They tell me there's a hole in the ground. I do not need to see it. There are much larger holes in the fabric of the families and their friends. I have seen just a very very small section of that fabric. This is what it means to live in New York: Very large holes ... everywhere. Much of the fabric that holds these holes together is strong and committed to remembering the beauty of the love lost and love found ... and ... from a distance ... one could almost pretend ... it is simply a beautiful lace.