Sometimes life seems to chug along, moving forward at a near-glacial pace day to day, until something happens that makes you stop and take notice and realize that a ton of time has passed while you weren’t looking. An anniversary, a birthday, a holiday. On September 11th, 2011, Violet was almost four. Liam had just turned eight months old. I was a producer on three different kids’ shows and developing pitches for two more. And Darren and I had been married for almost five years. It was more than seven years since you left New York. And a decade, exactly, since the first time you and I met. A decade since the attacks that set both of our adult lives in motion and caused our individual journeys to intertwine and separate.
At Violet’s preschool, September 11th was Heroes Day. There was a special gathering in Prospect Park where the kids learned about firefighters and police officers and EMTs. After that, whenever Violet saw a fire truck or a police car or an ambulance, she stopped and chanted, “Go, heroes, go! Go, heroes, go!” She still does. Liam, too. It always makes me smile.
Memorial events took place across the city. Services at St. Pat’s and Trinity Church, and a photography exhibit at the Historical Society. There were two blue columns of light, beaming up from Ground Zero, shining even taller than the towers, visible for miles. And you called. I’d actually been contemplating calling you, even though I knew I shouldn’t.
I’m sure you remember this.
You were in Kabul. “I’ve been thinking about you all day,” you said, when I picked up the phone.
“Me too,” I confessed, ducking into Violet’s bedroom and shutting the door.
“I didn’t know if you would pick up,” you said.
I thought back to all of the times you’d reached out to me. “Have I ever not picked up?” I asked.
“Never,” you said softly.
I sat down on Violet’s bed and told you about Heroes Day, about what was happening in New York. You said you wished you were here.
“It feels like you should be,” I said. “It feels like we should go to the roof of Wien and take stock of the city.”
“I wish,” you said.
Neither of us knew what to say after that, but neither of us wanted to get off the phone. We sat there in silence, receivers pressed to our ears.
“Let’s imagine we’re there right now,” I said.
“And there’s no smoke, just a beautiful skyline,” you said.
I closed my eyes. “And birds, and a blue, cloudless sky, and people walking up and down the streets,” I added. “And you can hear children’s laughter wafting up from a playground below. And no one’s afraid that the next breath they take might be their last.”
“What else?” you asked.
“The Empire State Building,” I told you. “We can see that too.”
“Standing strong and proud,” you said.
“Yes, strong and proud.” I opened my eyes.
“I like that,” you said. “Thank you, Lucy.”
“You’re welcome,” I answered, though I wasn’t quite sure what you were thanking me for.
“I should go to bed now, it’s late over here.” You yawned through your words.
“Okay,” I said. “Good night. Sleep well.”
You yawned again. “I’m glad you answered,” you said.
“I’m glad you called,” I responded.
Then we hung up, and I realized how much it meant to talk to you that day. How I would have felt incomplete otherwise.
Did you feel the same way?