I remember

The day. The day I stepped off a plane and into a world irrevocably changed.

And the day after that.

And the day after that.

And the day after that.

And a month after that.

And a few days later.

Those are things I remember because, for some reason, I wrote them down.

There are other things I remember because they put a dent in my heart. I remember that was the day we found out Mark died a horrible death in a field in Pennsylvania. I remember that was the day we began to worry that Michael, the artist formerly known as The Actor, might be lost too. I remember that Terry called me from San Francisco and cried on the phone with relief when I told him my flight had landed safely. (And I remember that I didn't remember to call my mother and tell her I'd landed until three hours after the second tower fell.) I remember wanting so desperately to be in New York to find and hold my friends close and feel like I was doing something.

And I remember wondering if I would always remember. And I do. And I always will.

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