I cannot go to the gym on September 11. Six years ago I was on the treadmill watching TV when the planes hit the towers and later as they fell. An adjacent monitor was showing the movie “Top Gun” and it looked to our bewildered and horrified eyes that the military had mobilized and we were somehow at war – while we were at the gym.
So I don’t go. The gym won’t miss me and my spirit needs to not be repeating that same scenario, just in case.
This is the first year that I have not been in Boston for the anniversary. I lived there at the time and remember the rage and grief that poured from the city as we realized the planes that caused the destruction had come from our city. Many of us either knew, or were separated by one degree from someone who did know, a victim on a plane or in the towers. I lost a friend who was going to LA but who died when his plane hit.
New Haven is part of the greater NYC area and feels the ripples from the tragedy in small personal ways even more than we did in Boston. Lives were ripped apart while others celebrated family and each other with “snatched from death” clarity.
Taking the time to remember honors those who died and those who live to remember them. It’s been six years and life goes on. But the gym is not a place for me today. I think I’ll call my parents and tell them I love them.