He calls me his love.
My love! He says, smiling. And, more quietly, his eyes on mine: my love.
Some of those people, that eleventh day of the ninth month of the first year of the new century – some of them died right away, vaporized. But I always think of the ones who called. How urgent the thought: answer, please answer, please please answer.
What would I say to you? Thinking of this, I picked up the phone once, the way a pagan might handle a crucifix. I imagined you on the other end and what I would say to you in the dust and fire and smoke, and the only thing that came to me was: my love. My love, my love, my love.