Moment of Silence

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september 11Last year, I sat quietly at my desk while an entire office scurried around, oblivious to what this day was until someone noticed that I was unusually quiet and reflective and said, “Oh my God, were you there?”

Two years ago, I sat quietly at my desk while co-workers rambled on about how this day is sad, but things are turning around.

Three years ago, I sat quietly at my desk while watching bagpipers play on the big screens in the office with a few other people who understood.

Four years ago, I sat quietly on my couch, watching the names, the ceremony. I was pregnant, and my hands laid across my belly, and I prayed that my child would not have to know this sadness. That year I did not weep. It was the first time in ten years that I did not cry when the bells at the Church rang. Or when everyone stopped for a moment and collectively went mute with memories.

I could go into a big story on what happened that day. But instead, I’ll tell you what happened after.

When the world opened up a little more the following week, people looked at each other on the subway and connected. The background noise dimmed a bit, and everything seemed manageable because we were all in it together. Collectively, we had a moment of silence.

I remember the silence the most. Everyone just was quiet. Thoughtful and intentional but quiet. Almost like we didn’t have the words to say what needed to be said. Or how to express…. anything.

At that time, I wasn’t a girlfriend, wife, or mama to anyone, but I remember feeling that I wasn’t alone in the silence. We were all in it together. This didn’t just happen to me, and my story isn’t the worst story out there, but it happened to us. And the silence of us makes us stronger. I hope that my children never have to experience a day like that, but if they do, I hope they have people like I did to surround them and keep them sane, safe and hold them close. And let their quiet parts be quiet.

About three weeks later, I had tickets to a show beyond Canal Street. At the time, they were encouraging people to stay north because of the fire that still was not out, and the aftereffects of breathing the air was still unclear. I ignored the pleas because that’s what you do in your 20’s. You are invincible. And even though there was a massive tragedy that just happened, it made sense to be together and brave this new world. My friend accompanied me, armed with our dust masks, identification, and hope for some respite from reality.

We listened to Eddie From Ohio play their folksy quartet stuff we loved in the half-full concert hall. It wasn’t a full rocking show, half of the sold-out audience wasn’t there, but there was something so amazing about listening to music and getting out of our heads for just that moment. One of the band members said, “It was hard getting here, but we feel like we have to be here. For you. For New York. This is for our brothers.”

And they played Oh My Brother.

At that moment was forever. Silence. Weight. Grief. Community. Compassion. Duty. Loss.

I pray that we can have a moment of silence today, and each day after, that resets the ferociously loud parts of ourselves and has us connect to the silence.

…and singing this song is no way to say goodbye…but it’s the only way I know…

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Kim
Once a big girl in a big city, replete with high heels and red lipstick, now living in Norwalk with long suffering husband and two little ladies (4 and 1.5). I am the mom that will stop strangers from buying useless things (newborn shoes) and conversation crashes everywhere. I used to travel the world, now I look for low budget hotels with pools for the ladies (bonus if there is a nearby coffee house!). If you are stuck in an elevator with me, just know, I will talk to you. I can't help it.

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