The need to put something, anything in the cutout in the rock overwhelmed me, but I had nothing, only my camera.
Today was a crisp October morning. The leaves are past their colorful peak and soon the branches will be bare. The sun was burning the morning fog away and Ray wanted to go. We live only a short distance from the flight 93 memorial site. When the crash of the plane on 9/11 happened so long ago, we wanted to go, but just didn’t. Today was the day.
The memorial is very open, the crater had long ago been filled in, the site of the crash marked only by a giant boulder. The visitors were very solemn, waiting to read the plaques, tears in some eyes, including mine. We walked down the walkway, all ten of us, leading to the marble tablets, each carved with only one name; memorializing each one who stood in the gap for all of us. Forty plain, white, marble tablets standing side by side. Noticeably absent were the names of the four terrorists that took over the plane.
The pictures of the passengers were on a plaque. They looked just like you and me; all races, both sexes, all ages; except there were no children on board that day, thank God. It was hard not to look at the area, and imagine yourself right there on that plane; and the choices are: accept your fate, or fight for life and freedom and country.
The silence of the area is deafening… no traffic really, no trains, just the wind and the stones and the gifts in the cutouts along the walkway.
There were medals, both service medals and Boy scout and religious medals, flags… things people brought to leave…
but then there was someone’s hair pin, a bracelet, some coins, flowers just picked out of the field over there… a piece of someone’s life…or a piece from someone’s heart.
I felt my pockets; I had nothing… nothing at all to give, to show my appreciation for their gift and sacrifice, just my tears…