Thursday, September 10, 2009
Older, But Not Wiser
The city that never sleeps.
The defensive headquarters of a nation.
An empty field in rural America.
Eight years ago, the world held its breath as nearly 3,000 souls were stolen in the name of hate.
September 11, 2001: The largest attack by a foreign entity on American soil. The New York fire department lost 343 members of its force, while the police departments of New York and the Port Authority lost 23 and 37, respectively—the largest loss of emergency responders in a single event in U.S. history.
And for a time, the nation united as never before, inspired by stories of heroism and hope. Strangers helped each other. Volunteers mobilized. Support came from the far reaches of the globe and from right next door. We donated supplies, we called our families, and we hugged a little tighter that Christmas. And we swore we’d never forget.
The bumper stickers have faded now.
Hate still fills our airwaves, not in newsfeeds from foreign channels, but from within our own borders. And it has turned viral, feeding upon fear, spread by those who would capitalize from a polarized nation. We have abandoned our manners, forgotten the very meaning of the word "respect." We bicker over healthcare. We spin controversy from a simple message meant to inspire our kids to stay in school.
The rhetoric is everywhere. And it is just as hostile—it is filled with just as much hate—as the 19 terrorists who carried out their attacks eight years ago.
How quickly we forget. How easy it is to become complacent, to feel safe in the absence of danger.
Anniversaries are important, if for no other reason than they help ensure we do not forget. And on this anniversary in particular, there is so much more we can do.
We can refuse to be swayed by hate. We can vow to question every single word we read, to consider its source and examine its agenda. We can learn to recognize terrorism in all its guises—from Al-Qaeda hijackers to hecklers of handicapped women at town hall meetings.
We can stop the spread of ignorance—truly, we can.
I have faith in us. Do you?
Goodbye, Mosley
This is an ode to my old house, written when I was feeling rather melancholy about leaving. Catharsis in 730 words.
Goodbye, Mosley
I know it’s just a house.
Just a shelter from the elements, and not an overly impressive one, at that. Even to my untrained eye, it is obvious the architect cared more for cheap construction than design elements. For some people, a house is nothing more than bricks and mortar, yet our little dwelling cannot claim such lofty ideals. It has but one half-wall of masonry in front, and that serves more decoration than function. Simple lumber provides the only real support.
Before the siding was replaced, there were rats in the attic. And not just any rats—zombie rats. We found a dead one in a trap once, its little rat-brain eaten by its friends, leaving nothing but a hollow, rat-skull bowl. The creepy factor alone was enough to prompt calls to pest control and siding contractors. Until they arrived and work was completed, there was nothing to do but load the traps with more peanut butter.
Zombie rats love peanut butter.
There are a thousand things I meant to do to this house. Now that it’s empty, they jump out at me: the gaps where the baseboards still need to be caulked; the gouges in the wall where I got a bit too zealous removing the wallpaper; the crack in the ceiling, along the drywall seam.
If I squint, I can still see the holes in the wall where the baby-gate was attached.
And that’s when it hits me.
These walls have seen more of my life than any others I’ve known.
They held me up after my mother died, when the tears wouldn’t stop and the effort to walk was more than I could manage. They watched us bring our newborn daughter home from the hospital and set her tiny, sleeping body on the bed. They must have seen the terror on our faces, must have realized how unprepared we were when we whispered, “What do we do now?” The house answered as best it could. The doors seemed to stick less when she was sleeping, and the holly outside her window quadrupled in size, ensuring no intruders could enter.
Our baby grew into a child in this house. It feels so wrong to stand in her room now. Where is the Winnie the Pooh wallpaper border we hung when I was pregnant? Where are the Tinker Bell murals that decorated her playroom?
The empty rooms echo with my footsteps instead of her laughter. Safe, neutral tones have replaced the vibrant green walls and purple trim she loved so much. I know it had to be done—what buyer would make an offer on a house with such ludicrous colors? But it still feels like a betrayal, like I’ve destroyed a piece of her childhood that can never be recreated.
There are more memories waiting for me in the bedroom. Sleepy morning kisses, watching the rain pelt the windows. Candlelit nights and soft sighs. But these are private memories, best left unwritten. No one will know the games played in this room. The house will keep our secrets.
I walk to the living room and stare out the window, and I’m struck by how barren the patio looks without my overgrown jungle of plants. The ash tree will drop its seedpods soon, but now it will be someone else’s mess to clean. I’m relieved, yet I can’t stop the sting of jealousy as I picture a stranger sitting beneath its branches. Will they wrap themselves in a blanket on chilly autumn mornings and sip their coffee, as I did? Will their eyes watch for the flash of red from the cardinal who winters in our yard? Will their spirits lift when they hear his song?
The image before me blurs, and I know it is time to leave.
Time to say goodbye.
Goodbye to pool parties and plentiful parking, to crazy neighbors and crooked walls. Goodbye to an insanely large closet and an annoyingly small kitchen. Goodbye, messy tree and sweet, melodious cardinal. Goodbye, zombie rats.
Goodbye, Mosley.
I turn my key in the lock for the last time and allow myself one look back. I see much more than an empty house. Behind the cracked, peeling paint of the front door I remember thirteen years of laughter and tears, of hopes and dreams. Thirteen years of fights and reconciliations, of sorrows and joys, of highs and lows. Within this simple shell, there were births and there were deaths.
But above all, there was life.
I know it’s just a house.
Just wood and nails that cannot see my tears or hear my whispered thanks. I offer both anyway.
Thank you, Mosley. We shall miss you.
Goodbye, Mosley
I know it’s just a house.
Just a shelter from the elements, and not an overly impressive one, at that. Even to my untrained eye, it is obvious the architect cared more for cheap construction than design elements. For some people, a house is nothing more than bricks and mortar, yet our little dwelling cannot claim such lofty ideals. It has but one half-wall of masonry in front, and that serves more decoration than function. Simple lumber provides the only real support.
Before the siding was replaced, there were rats in the attic. And not just any rats—zombie rats. We found a dead one in a trap once, its little rat-brain eaten by its friends, leaving nothing but a hollow, rat-skull bowl. The creepy factor alone was enough to prompt calls to pest control and siding contractors. Until they arrived and work was completed, there was nothing to do but load the traps with more peanut butter.
Zombie rats love peanut butter.
There are a thousand things I meant to do to this house. Now that it’s empty, they jump out at me: the gaps where the baseboards still need to be caulked; the gouges in the wall where I got a bit too zealous removing the wallpaper; the crack in the ceiling, along the drywall seam.
If I squint, I can still see the holes in the wall where the baby-gate was attached.
And that’s when it hits me.
These walls have seen more of my life than any others I’ve known.
They held me up after my mother died, when the tears wouldn’t stop and the effort to walk was more than I could manage. They watched us bring our newborn daughter home from the hospital and set her tiny, sleeping body on the bed. They must have seen the terror on our faces, must have realized how unprepared we were when we whispered, “What do we do now?” The house answered as best it could. The doors seemed to stick less when she was sleeping, and the holly outside her window quadrupled in size, ensuring no intruders could enter.
Our baby grew into a child in this house. It feels so wrong to stand in her room now. Where is the Winnie the Pooh wallpaper border we hung when I was pregnant? Where are the Tinker Bell murals that decorated her playroom?
The empty rooms echo with my footsteps instead of her laughter. Safe, neutral tones have replaced the vibrant green walls and purple trim she loved so much. I know it had to be done—what buyer would make an offer on a house with such ludicrous colors? But it still feels like a betrayal, like I’ve destroyed a piece of her childhood that can never be recreated.
There are more memories waiting for me in the bedroom. Sleepy morning kisses, watching the rain pelt the windows. Candlelit nights and soft sighs. But these are private memories, best left unwritten. No one will know the games played in this room. The house will keep our secrets.
I walk to the living room and stare out the window, and I’m struck by how barren the patio looks without my overgrown jungle of plants. The ash tree will drop its seedpods soon, but now it will be someone else’s mess to clean. I’m relieved, yet I can’t stop the sting of jealousy as I picture a stranger sitting beneath its branches. Will they wrap themselves in a blanket on chilly autumn mornings and sip their coffee, as I did? Will their eyes watch for the flash of red from the cardinal who winters in our yard? Will their spirits lift when they hear his song?
The image before me blurs, and I know it is time to leave.
Time to say goodbye.
Goodbye to pool parties and plentiful parking, to crazy neighbors and crooked walls. Goodbye to an insanely large closet and an annoyingly small kitchen. Goodbye, messy tree and sweet, melodious cardinal. Goodbye, zombie rats.
Goodbye, Mosley.
I turn my key in the lock for the last time and allow myself one look back. I see much more than an empty house. Behind the cracked, peeling paint of the front door I remember thirteen years of laughter and tears, of hopes and dreams. Thirteen years of fights and reconciliations, of sorrows and joys, of highs and lows. Within this simple shell, there were births and there were deaths.
But above all, there was life.
I know it’s just a house.
Just wood and nails that cannot see my tears or hear my whispered thanks. I offer both anyway.
Thank you, Mosley. We shall miss you.
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