And So It Goes

I rose reluctantly that day, though earlier than usual on account of a work function being held before my noon class. In my rush and sleepy haze, I dressed quickly and in silence, ignoring the almost constant phone calls coming in on my cell phone. I thought it was Stuart, my co-worker telling me I was late. It was actually my mother telling me to turn on the tv and witness the world falling down. I had no idea. I finished dressing and raced across town, CD blaring and more than likely screaming at traffic and red lights. On any other morning, I listened to talk radio and would have tuned into tragedy but in my haste I failed to switch from CD to tuner. I pulled into the driveway of the home where I parked and was mounting my bike when Jon, my friend and house resident, came out to tell me that this morning was like no other. By the time I reached the tv, all four planes were down as were both towers. I rode to school, tears and prayers tumbling out, numb and disbelieving. By the time I arrived at the volunteer fair, Stuart was waiting to tell me it had been cancelled. We discussed the morning briefly and eventually I joined the crowds of people huddled around tv sets, reliving the hours-old disasters, mouths open though completely silent. Today, two years later, we are still silent in memorium, in reverence, and because, really, there is nothing we can say. The silence says it all.
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