I remember shuffling looking for you the morning of 9/11, it was a different time. Hours of horror, of not knowing. I didn’t know then, but you were sleeping, soundly. But I didn’t know. Phone calls were different then, they took a while. You came back okay. For whatever it was after this, you’d find your way to me, sometimes far too easily.
Now for the first time since forever, I saw your interview about that day you went missing (but then you were only sleeping, soundly). I never saw this before and now that I did, I hoped.
There I was, I watched you talking about it. I watched you pick your words considerately, at times, correcting yourself. I watched you struggled, moving your hands frantically expressing what you couldn’t put into phrases. How you helped with what you got and all the while, solemnly observing people picking up severed arms, heads, and other parts of bodies. I watched you talk and talk about how horrific, about how you cared, about how it changed you. And for one second, it changed me.