Nowadays, I am not one easily given to displays of overwrought emotion. In fact, I am usually characterised by sang-froid in the realm of the emotional: a practical girl, good head on her shoulders, get on with it, that sort of thing. Or at least I like to think of myself as so.
I have spoken before on this moment, this odd combination of numbers, the unlucky reminder of both better and worse times, the sickening memory that now, invariably, comes around annually, stretching into infinity. Every year there will be a moment of recognition, however increasingly dim, of an event as germinal to one's experience and as shocking in its abruptness as the guns of August or the explosion of Vesuvius, signaling the profound loss of an entire world, in the toxic plume that covered lower Manhattan.
Unfortunately, the human heart is not equipped to deal with this sort of sudden catastrophe, this vaporisation of quotidian realities that were thought of, however erroneously, as timeless. And as time has passed, the true ramifications of that awful moment settle in the bones, uncomfortably, a painful reminder.
Suffice it to say, emotionally drained in a curiously dislocated way, I feel bereft of adding anything more than what I have already said, other than to sadly note that September 11th, 2001 has become the national sepulchre for both our common taste and promise, a greater loss than any of us could possibly have imagined, at the time.