Everything is making me cry.
I’m like a raw nerve in jeans and a turtleneck.
I’d like to blame it on the snow, but that would be too simple.
Saw a three legged-labrador hopping down Third in a red ski sweater, swaying in the wind.
After watching two baby squirrels playing in the snow, wondering what they were saying to each other in squirrelese…I sobbed.
Read how, when Benjamin Franklin died in 1788, because he championed the first American synagogue, in Philadelphia, allowing Jews to openly worship without fear for the first time, the whole congregation walked behind his casket in gratitude. I sobbed again.
Thumbing through a book on JFK, I found the pictures of John Jr. hiding under his father’s desk in the Oval Office.
Then I thought back to the July, John’s plane went down, a day before my birthday, and sobbed some more.
I came upon a Peggy Noonan essay called, Courage Under Fire, when she compares September 11th to the charge of the Light Brigade, borrowing from Tennyson’s famous poem. Into the tower of death strode the three hundred…the firemen who went up the stairs and never came down…I sobbed louder.
But what had me on my knees, was a picture of Carmela the Bassett Hound, taken in Brooklyn, the last time I saw her.
Those legendary ears, that heard for the both of us.
That’s when I knew whatever held my heart hostage, was not letting go.