I was asked, why do I insist on celebrating this day.
First of all, celebrating is certainly, not the right word. One doesn’t celebrate the saddest day New York City has ever had.
But yes, we remember.
I’ve been thinking of Hurricane Harvey, and now Irma, the photos of people hugging their children and animals, sopping wet on the floor of a church.
Why Texas, why Florida, when New York has had the nicest weather, me running around in a little cotton dress, a breeze blowing through my hair.
Victims at random, like on September 11th, 2001 when so many died, just by showing up for work.
A friend, if he hadn’t moved from Florida two weeks ago, would have been smack in the middle of Irma’s path.
My pal Joe, interviewed at Cantor Fitzgerald, deciding not to take the job. They lost practically everyone on 9/11.
So yes, I remember the random, because like Joe, wasn’t one of them, but rather a witness to their fate.
This is why, on this day, I sit in a church and pray for them.
To quote the late Washington Post writer Mary McGrory, “Write short sentences in the presence of great grief.”
Even if it’s 16 years later.
Does that answer the question?