Falling.

Warning: I drop the f-bomb (I forget, am I supposed to warn?)
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(Don’t forget me.)

Today I was reading “Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close” & anyone who has read it will know what I’m talking about when I talk about the chapter in which the grandmother talks about her son, who died in the twin towers on September 11, 2001.
Bodies falling.
Buildings falling.
Bodies falling.
I’m reading this on the plane today & I’m flying over ground zero & I can’t help but cry & so I’m sitting there in my plane seat & I’m reading & the tears are making my eyes blurry & before I know it I’m shaking & my hands are shaking. The pages are shaking & my eyes are blurry & I can’t read anymore so I set the book down & I try to compose myself but I can’t because
What about all those people that died?
&
What about the fathers & the mothers &
I don’t usually cry about this. It’s not something I’ve ever cried about. I didn’t know anyone. I didn’t even know anyone who knew anyone. I was in the middle of Colorado & I didn’t even know what was going on. I saw it on the news & I saw the towers go down & I knew that something bad had happened but I wouldn’t really understand for years to come. I cried about Columbine. I was younger at Columbine. Columbine was down the street, I knew people. I hate tragedy & I hate terrorism &
Fuck, why can’t we all get along.
We’re not that different, anyway.