No, I Won't Forget

I don’t do sad well.  Let’s face it, the side-effects are horrendous when I really do sad.  Like when I cry.  You know, the puffy, blood shot eyes, the red cheeks, gasping for breath so hard that you nearly hyperventilate, and let’s not forget the nose that produces a ridiculous amount of snot... it just makes me a slobbery mess!  Pretty picture, huh? 

Crying can be seen by some as a sign of weakness.  For me, I think it’s really a sign of strength.  It symbolized to me that I feel.  I feel something.  Be it anger, happiness, sadness—I can feel.  And boy do I.  Ever since I can remember, I’ve had this heart beating within my chest that seems to have the capacity to love everyone and everything.  Now, it’s really a blessing and a curse as the side-effects can be very painful.  It’s this crazy insane hodgepodge of empathy and sympathy and I suppose compassion.  It’s confusing really. Often times, I feel for others as if what is happening in their life is happening directly to me.  

As the anniversary of September 11^th is here, I get incredibly sad.  I go back to that living room on Glen Brook Dr., with the brown carpet. I sit at the table in shock.  I am crying as I watch the television.  I’m holding my baby boy, just me and him in the house.   The sun is shining so brightly outside. It is a beautiful day.  But it’s as if the world has suddenly stopped and time stands still.  My world went silent.  And I was afraid.  The faces, oh God, the faces that I see on the television.  And all I can do is sit, watch, hold my baby, and cry.  Alone.  The horror, the fear, the confusion... it pierced my heart. It was as if I was feeling the pain of many at the moment and it felt as if life was literally being sucked out of my body.  

I almost feel like I don't belong to those feelings. I have no right.  And I'm fully aware that I do not know.  I am fully aware that I can never really understand.  My thoughts and feelings are so insignificant and little; meaningless in the grand scheme, but that sadness was paralyzing. 

But I wonder if it’s in the feeling and in the remembrances where we validate the existence of love in the world? 

The hero’s.

The ones who gave their lives to save the lives of others.

The innocent.

The ones who sacrificed absolutely everything for people they didn’t even know. 

Those whose actions justified the freedom that I have.

When I allow myself to feel things as others may, its' as if I'm saying that I remember they existed and that they exist.  My tears are small memorials for people I never met.  With each ache of the heart, each tear that falls,  I'm remembering  people who were husbands, wives, fathers, sons, mothers, daughters... they existed and they were somebody's world. 

It’s small, but it’s my way to never forget.

So it may seem like weakness to some, but to me, I choose to believe it is part of my strength.  I’m okay with possessing the insane ability to genuinely feel for others—to care and to love with my whole heart.  I don’t think it’s such a terrible thing.  It’s painful, but it’s not terrible.