I was in preschool, maybe four years old when 9/11 happened. One of my friends' father was killed. I didn't really understand. I remember my mother telling me to be extra-nice to her but I didn't truly know why. Now I know. This poem is for her.
Glass shattering
tiny shards falling
so many
it seems to rain crystals
Flame tendrils
creeping up,
smoke billowing.
Death.
That is what they teach us.
that is all
they want us to know.
But that isn’t
all that really happened;
the yells
and shouts
and screams,
the mayhem,
the sirens wailing
like an animal in pain.
That is just a mask,
a black veil that we have drawn
over this day.
It is truly about the loss.
The people who were killed.
The children who were orphaned.
Your father
going into work
and never coming home.
Your mother
with tears coursing down her cheeks
like so many salty rivers
telling you that he
is not coming back.
That he is gone.
And you feel alone.
More alone than you have ever felt.
To know that you
will never see his smile again,
with the brightness to light up
your darkest day.
Will never hold his hand again,
feel the warm callouses
assuring you that he will hold you
forever.
That he is gone.
Gone.

Ha ha!