For twelve years I have tried and failed to write about 9/11. Last night I stayed up way too late laboring over the essay that I thought would finally express what that day meant to me. This morning, twenty minutes before it was scheduled to post, I read it again and aborted. At the last minute, it seemed to me that “no words” better expressed what I was trying to say than the 700+ words I had wrung out of myself like blood from a stone. Ironically, yesterday’s “no words” post, which consisted of just that, got more hits than many other posts I’ve spent hours composing.
Today I’ll just say that this is what kept me going that terrible year:
I lived for the doctor’s appointments when I could hear the heartbeat of my son, who was born about 9 months after 9/11.