One year

It doesn't seem like a year.

Somehow, the planes keep spiralling in on an endless loop in my brain.

Part of me is still waiting for the credits to roll on this disaster movie, while the rest knows they never will, because it's not a movie.

Part of me will always be watching the TV in the corner of the library, vainly wishing for someone authoritatively reassuring to
come on and, well, authoritatively reassure us.

Someone.
Anyone
Other than the bland talking heads we were getting.

I wanted
Walter Cronkite.
Colin Powell.

The disaster movie scenario came back on line.
I wanted to see
James Earl Jones being Mustafa-style avuncular, reassuring us that everything would be all right.
I wanted
Glen Close in her homely, brisk, no-nonsense Jenny Fields mode taking charge.
I wanted
a vaguely recognizable B list actor to give the news in the horrified calm typical of movies, instead of the very real, very raw emotions from the newscasters.
So help me,
I even wanted Harrison Ford. He seems more presidential than the Shrub. I wanted him as some sort of suit to reassure us all.

But the credits aren't going to roll.
And we still have the Shrub, who is no more than Cheny's sock-puppet apparently
And the grief is still too raw
and the shock
and horror linger too close.

I feel it in every line of my body,
in the tightness behind my eyes.
In the way I can't seem to smile today
as if my face will break.

It's in the way people stop,
and watch a jet on its approach.
The way the engine sound
doesn't make me think "air-pay!" but
rather "duck and cover!"

Last year, I made tea.
And then I made some more tea.
It didn't help.

This year,
I made tea.
I'm about to make some more tea.
And it still won't help.

Today: wear red white and blue.
Drive with your lights on.
And go give blood.

If you pray, pray.
If you don't, ponder.
Go get involved.
Be a part of something local
or global.

Turn the pain into beauty.

I still need some tea.