I just picture it as a play, how it would be staged and how the feelings of those who were terrified would be portrayed. In the movies, on the screen; it is still too distant. We saw too much of it replayed over, and over, and over. We analyzed it, the footage spoke volumes, and it flickered by so quickly. There were not hours to be in it, only hours to recover from it.
Picture this on stage, where the special effects are limited, where you are brought into the personal moment of the man, woman or child about to be facing such a horrible and untimely fate. Would feeling this event again make it seem more real than a distant memory? The wounds are still fresh; it is not yet healed for many.
The shock to the system has not dissipated for some.
So many theories, so little time, but look; look stage left. There, it is the first tower going down. The man in the street is running; the smoke, the haze, the swan dive in the distance over. The eyes of the man on the street looked up, he stood and raised his face and cried out. He watched the man on the fiery building reach his arms out, poised not frantic, accepting the air, swooshing. You cannot see that it is off stage. You can only hear something. Something muted that is a terrible reality.
They did say goodbye. It was caught in their throat; it was expressed in the wind. The running man, now fearing more terror.
He wakes from his ten year nightmare.
He walks to the kitchen and pours himself a glass of scotch.
It is time somewhere in the world to drink.
He has moved around enough in the last ten years trying to finish his life, with just one night not thinking about what he saw. He wonders what spirit is within him that wants to be released. He is a survivor. Too many were not.
His wife was not.
She was off stage left.
He was in the street.
We remember 9/11.
Copyright 2012 by SheilaTGTG55