Wednesday, October 26, 2011

9/11 Memorial | Reflections

Negative space

Church street buildings, stoic grandpas, look over my shoulder. Their faces reflect in the pool. We saw it, they whisper. We saw it and everything changed. Feel it for the ones who died. Tell this story. Be in it. Look down.

It’s a negative space, a heavy footprint, a hollowing-out. It's the inverse, a shadow, a deficiency. Absence. Passing on. Seeing what's gone.

The world is heavy for me here.

It’s ominous, that dark hole. It’s my mouth that fell open while I watched them go. It’s our panic, exposed. It’s the silence of all the laser-cut names, the emptiness of the skyline when the buildings weren’t there.

It's an open grave, water tumbling into a void.

The bottomless chasm.
The sick dread, remembered.
The horrifying line our eyes followed twice.
A visual refrain.
It's pulling me in.

Trace it down again.

In the space is everything that can’t be the same.

Keep looking down. Commit it to memory. Remember them falling, remember you saw it. Remember.

This ground is scattered with souls.
They went to the earth and you have to remember. Feel it. Tell what you saw.

The water pulls down and down and then down again.
A whirlpool, no whirl.
Every second, again.
Down.

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