Eight Years / An Otherwise Quiet Morning

Has it really been eight years? I just can't believe it. I actually wrote the following poem three years ago on September 11, 2006, five years after losing him. I literally woke up and these words were written for me, following a period where I hadn't written anything in a long, long time. It's like I was finally able to say what I needed to say, to write what I needed to write, in order to pay my proper respects. It never gets any easier, though, and even today, it's still hard to think that I am now 30, and yet he will forever remain 23. 

And that is one of 2,993 reasons why I will never forget..........

An Otherwise Quiet Morning

Wiping tears from my eyes

after five years of flashbacks

from an otherwise quiet morning

I wonder if he got to work on time

If he thought of stepping away from his desk

To grab a muffin or a Mochachino

Or fuck, even a donut and coffee

I think about the elevators on any other day

Well-oiled machines seen as afterthoughts

in the ages of technology and convenience

only acknowledged when something goes wrong

such as a system outage or a fire,

the red button pushed and prodded to no avail

hopes fading as bodies instinctively shoot over to stairwells

or, in the most dire situations,

towards windows,

the lungs longing for a few more breaths

the oft-broken spirit searching for one – just one “I’ve worked too hard and too long for it to end like this” or “What will happen to my pregnant wife if I don’t get out of here?” or “I hope the last memory is not an argument that carried over from last night’s dinner” or “Fuck this shit I would rather jump and take a chance than stay here and let them beat me on their terms” – miracle.

I ponder the flickering feelings that may have crossed his mind:

Did he think of the ring he bought his girlfriend that remained in that special hiding place he carved out on the left-hand corner of his closet?

Did he picture his future as a loving great-grandfather showering three generations at Christmastime with love and laughs?

Did he look back on his past with fond memories of barbecues, baseball games, and graduations?

Or did he only have time for one fleeting thought:


Why?


Why?


Why?

Wiping tears from my eyes

after five years of flashbacks

from an otherwise quiet morning

Yes, there was an attack.

Yes, I want my friend back.