September 11: Once a Year, September 11 Anniversary, Judith Minty, "Hawk," Adventures of Stickman

And once a year, in the winter, a day or two after Christmas, he and Annie would visit their son's grave.  Standing in the cemetery before his son's marker out in Long Island, as the years went by, Ives did not for a moment envision a seventeen-year-old in eternal repose, but a man the age his son would have been.  And there were occasions when he viewed the grave as some kind of "stopover" his son had made on his way to another, more beautiful place.  Sometimes Ives felt that a kind of trick had been played on him.  Why else would he walk into a church and have the sensation that his son was that priest up by the altar, raising the Host and saying Mass?  Why did he often think that he would see Robert again, his face serene and secure in his intimate knowledge of the Lord, that way Ives once used to see it?

The annual pilgrimages that Ives makes to his son's grave are not passive moments of reflection and sadness.  Even years after Robert's murder, Ives continues to imagine that his son grew up, entered the seminary, and became a priest.  Robert is not frozen in Ives' mind.  Instead, Robert grows older, grayer, wiser.  Basically, he is everything that Ives dreamed he would be.

Today was the fourteenth anniversary of the 9-11 attacks.  There were concerts performed, poems recited, and songs sung.  This evening, I attended a football game at my daughter's school.  Before the game began, the announcer asked everyone in the stadium seats to stand and observe a moment of silence.  And then, as the flag was raised to half-staff, the pep band played the national anthem.

I found the moment incredibly moving.  For those few moments, it felt like everyone was united in remembrance.  A collective grief and pride.  I could hear a few people in the stands singing The Star Spangled Banner quietly. 

I often wonder why it takes tragedy to bring human beings together.  For my sister's funeral, my brother from Pennsylvania came.  It was the first time I'd seen him in several years.  In the days following the 9-11 attacks,. I felt incredibly close to everyone--family, friends, complete strangers.  Everyone comes together in moments of despair.

I do not have any pithy words of wisdom this evening.  In honor of the thousands of people who lost their lives on this day fourteen years ago, I offer two things:  1) a prayer of healing for anyone who is grieving a loss; and 2) a poem.

Saint Marty has no fairy tale this evening.  There is no happily ever after on this day for many people.

Hawk

by:  Judith Minty

Dead hawk outside my bedroom window,
even the cats won't touch it.
I laid low for three days,
didn't leave the house,
and wrote my Cherokee friend.
He hasn't answered, the hawk's
been waiting.  Today I took

the tail feathers and geet.
I feel worst about the feet,
hanging from the backporch beam--
fists clenched, claws like my own hand
holding the knife.  I knew
when the other one flew over, keening,
he wouldn't recognize her like that.

               --Jacoby Creek, California

Adventures of STICKMAN