Attacks on Our Soul(cont.)
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At your school, your new teacher tells your class that "an airplane had an accident and crashed" into the Trade Center towers. I'm glad she said that; it helps me answer your questions, like, did people die? And did the World Trade Center blow up? I respond honestly: yes, and yes. And we say a prayer for those who died and were hurt.
Your Daddy, who's swamped at the newspaper, checks in from time to time. We won't see him again today. I worry about his being at Times Square, the "crossroads of the world" and another potential terrorist target. But instead of telling him to come home, because I know he won't, I tell him I love him. He says to kiss you for him, which I do.
I try to make your day seem normal. I pick you up at your school, hug you a bit too long for your tastes, and we walk home along oddly serene streets. As we make our way across 96th Street, I glance south on each avenue and can see plumes of thick gray smoke billowing up from the devastation downtown. When we pass a park, you ask to stop and play. I hesitate. On a sunny, 80-degree day, it's empty. I say, let's just go home. To my relief, you don't complain.

Back home, you watch a lot of Cartoon Network in the kitchen as I sit in the dining room taking calls from those who manage to get through the phone lines and listening to the radio with growing sadness. At one point I have to step into another room and close the door. For a moment I bow my head, sit quietly, and cry. I mourn for those killed and for the losses of their families. And I ask God to help us bear this impossibly heavy load. Then I straighten up, wipe my eyes and become Mommy again.

Later, with military ships headed to guard our coast, the smoke begins to fade and stories of amazing rescues and hearty survivors offer us hope. The subways rumble beneath the city again and normally reserved New Yorkers strike up casual talk with strangers on the street. Workaday folk travel from far and near to offer food and clothes and blood, whatever will help. On talk radio, into the night, caller after caller vows that this, too, we will overcome. Our lives will change, yes, but we're still here - these United States. Even with all its warts, that's something to be thankful for.
And as I tuck you in bed, and we pray for all of us, I remember your joy back on the Vineyard: Proud American, age 4, raising Old Glory. You are so blessed, my sweetheart. You have your life, your limbs, your family, your freedom, and, still, your innocence.
Wave your flags, Zachary. Wave your flags.

Much love,
Mom

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