Upon the Approach of September 11, 2002

I cannot erase the images
that are never far away,
the images of metallic birds,
at which I once marveled as awesome things of beauty,
suddenly transformed from graceful birds
to heavily fueled missiles of destruction and death.

Forever seared into my psyche
is the remembrance of a man,
airborne like a huge, black silhouette,
whose legs made a grotesque image
of the number 4,
still clutching his briefcase
as he plunged toward certain death below.
(Are we too identified by what it is we do,
instead of who it is we are?)

As the Towers fell, I felt
a gnawing in my inner self,
a terror that I would
never see my home and family again,
that I might be just as those who died
at the hands of terrorists—
forever bereft of places
of love and comfort—at least here on Earth…

I recall, in almost slow-motion, surreal detail,
the frenzied exit out of Detroit,
the riding in a commandeered, little red car
on turnpikes devoid of all
save a few other souls in shock
at the suddenness of the world gone mad,
the spying of a lone American flag
hoisted in haste on a piece of planking
and hastily erected alongside the road,
just outside Pittsburgh, where the other jet,
the one headed for Washington, D. C.
(and possibly the Capitol) had gone down.

Then the memory intrudes of
the Pennsylvania Turnpike signs
saying to avoid main roads in DC,
the horrendous headache, the hurriedness,
the awareness that the highway patrol
had far more important things than the car’s speed,
the comfort in knowing that if the main roads were closed,
the roads through the ’hood where I lived and taught
would be open.
(Terrorists would have no interest in places
already barren and forgotten.)

The specter of a plane against the night sky
gave me an instant panic attack as I neared home.
Why is that plane there
when all the skies have been cleared?
What is about to be attacked now?
Will there be an air war
over the place I call home?
Questions, questions, and more questions
swirled though my mind,
but something in my heart kept saying,
“You are a child of the King.
Keep your thoughts tied to that
which is good, pure, and beautiful.”

After a frantic day of hard driving,
arriving home to hugs and tears
and television images that played
over and over--as though I needed
to be reminded to remember the carnage of the day—
I felt undying gratitude for the comfort of bed,
the healing properties of again being with family,
in familiar surroundings, at a place called home,
even if it were now in world gone mad.

Courage is faith in the presence of fear,
and I was given privy to how others must have felt,
and still feel, when they hear or see a plane overhead.
Dare they look up and marvel at a thing of beauty,
or must they first seek refuge from a huge bird of prey
seeking to feast on the carrion that they might now become?

I know now how it feels
to awaken in the middle of the night
to the sounds of F-16’s and AWACS as these
planes whine and drone overhead.
There is a temporary awareness
that I should be able to sleep, because they fly,
but I am unable to sleep, because they must fly.

I cling more closely to things that are
most important to me—family and friends.
Things of transience are not as important any more.
In the still moments, moments so quiet
I can hear my heart beating, there is a peacefulness
that o’ertops the wariness stoked by
the threats and tirades of politicians and madmen.
The wound in my soul is healing,
slowly forming a jagged scar,
but forming a scar, nonetheless.
And for that, I am grateful.