On the Saturday or Sunday following 911, my wife and I took the baby for his first walk beyond the house. Across the bay, we could still see the plume of smoke apparently heading toward Northern Queens from the spot where the Towers had stood. A tall, trim, fortyish man with salt-and-pepper hair approached us, on his way home. "I lost my best friend," he told us, muttering that he worked for the Fire Department, clutching momentarily at the work ID hanging from his belt loop, as his face tightened.
"I'm sorry," was all I knew to say, as he turned to go.
A man stands in a field of eternal bloom
Emerald grass and skies of blue
Where clouds drift and songbirds sing
He stands looking toward home
Waiting
For the day when they will come.
And stay.
Forever.