Please postpone Tomorrow.

Tomorrow is September 11. It happens every year, and each year, I yearn for it to be easier, for the memories to be less vivid, for the pain to be less....real. I don't want to remember, I don't want to relive, I don't want it to be Sept. 11. The pain in my stomach seems to encircle my heart, and pound in my head, and come out in my eyes. As much as I reject them, the memories of the day swirl in me. The morning drive to the airport, the humidity in the air. The delays, the change of plans. The change of planes. The announcement of "a national emergency." The voice of Sue--who says that Jennifer says there is trouble. "Where are you?" "on a plane." "dear God, this can't be happening."
The landing in El Paso. The sight of tanks and army personnel on the field. The quiet of the terminal. The silence and tears around the bar TV's. The hush. Hearing women cry out loud.
The panic. "No rental cars." No more flights. We don't know, sir, we don't know anything.
Should I pray? Pray out loud?
Our father....
The Lord is our strength, and our salvation.

The bus to the Motel 6. Far away from the airport. No, I have no money--no, these boys have no ID, no money. We just need a room--we'll figure out how to pay you.
Room 314. My laptop--cutting in and out. CNN, Fox, ABC--all the same images over and over and over and over.
Matt calls. "are you watching TV?" yes. Turn it off. Now, really, turn it off.
No.
Dear God, NO.
That...is...was...
Mark Bingham?
My Mark Bingham? But, I just saw him... just said "see ya later" he just grabbed my arm and said "with you."
There must be some mistake. Of course, not everyone died--they couldn't. Who else?
Todd Beamer?
Jeremy Glick?
Nicole Miller?
No tears. None.
Disbelief.
I don't know when I've eaten. I don't know when I've been to the bathroom. I don't know when I've slept.
Sue, on the phone. Come home. Get back. I'll stay on the phone.
My mother is safe. My brother is safe. My nephews are safe. For now. The atomic plant is near their houses. A target. I have never had those thoughts, that fear before. I do now.
I wanted to go to a church and pray. I called the baptist church that I had worked with, had done an assessment...and, I should have known by the assessment, the answering machine gave me the service times, told me that Awanas were starting, told me that the wednesday night meal required reservations. That would not be a place to go and pray. They were probably in a bunker, too.
From the motel patio, I heard songs in Spanish, and crying, wailing, praying. I was silent.

I walked three blocks to Applebees. Maybe if I ate, I would feel...something.
This could not be real. As I walked in, a Mexican family was surrounding a child. The pinata was there, but, unbroken. The faces were covered with tears, and fear. And, they began to sing "Happy Birthday." The entire restaurant--filled with displaced air travelers--began to sing "Happy Birthday!" As if to say damn it, YOU WILL have a HAPPY birthday! On this day of unbearable sadness--this child WILL have a happy birthday. We sang as if it were a battle cry. A fight song. A rally. Total strangers hugged the birthday girl, hugged each other, and the waiters offered free margaritas. I thought I should, but, then, I could not imagine anything to celebrate at that moment. Nothing. Mark was dead.
I lay on the bed. An entire day. I could not move.
Then, I heard the voice again. Come home.
I began to call to find a rental car. American Express travel, and Mary said that there was one car in Las Cruces, New Mexico. I am in El Paso.
The man from San Diego shared the cab with me to the bus station. We took the bus, the silent, smelly, hot bus to Las Cruces. I walked to the Avis office. I did not say anything. The man asked if I was the person that Mary had called about. I nodded. He gave me a hug. He said, "I'm sorry." He gave me the keys, and told me to leave the car at any Avis at an airport. I did not sign a contract.
I began to drive across the desert. The sun was streaking across the mountains. The redness of the hills, the rainbows, the sun beaming directly into the car. The radio--playing endless patriotic music...and Amazing Grace...and How Great Thou Art. The voices, the names, the search, the anguish. 16 hours in a non-rented rental car. Calling everyone I knew on my phone. Telling them I loved them. Asking if they are OK. Everyone says they are OK. Everyone is not OK.
I arrive at my little house on Maroa, and my neighbors come out to my driveway, and, they cry, and they hug me, and they welcome me home. Paula says," we knew you were on the east coast..we knew you were coming home on Tuesday morning. We thought..."
And, she cried. Her husband, Matt, hugged me, and cried. Their son, little Matt, hugged me tightly. I told them that my friend was dead. They said, "we know."
And, so, tonight... the 10th of September, I do not want to go to sleep: because, if I sleep, I will wake, and it will be September 11, and for the 8th year, I will remember, and relive, and be saddened all over again. But, I will not be afraid, and I will not be alone.
Sue will be on the phone, Jonathan will send me a text, saying that he is thinking of me today, because he knows that it is hard. And, it is. God, it is hard.
I will think of Alice, and how she lost her only son, her dearly, very loved, lovely son. I will think of Lisa, and how she lost Todd, and how the kids lost their dad.
I will think about the other Don Simmons. The one who was killed in the Pentagon. The man, a civilian, with whom I shared a name, who died at his desk. I will remember reading my own name in the list of victims.
So, I would like to postpone tomorrow, or, even more, I would cancel tomorrow, but, I will be forced to remember it again--on Sunday, when I will have to take off my shoes to board another airplane, and stand in a line, and throw away my water. I will hurt again, but, I will not cry.