Squaring the Circle

On September 11, 2017, I went square dancing.

The day is always weighty, a time for reflection. I stop dead in my tracks if I happen to have the news on at one of those moments -- when a plane hit, when another plane hit, when the towers imploded, one, then the other. The Pentagon. The field somewhere in Pennsylvania. Every year, in between my moments of silence, I hold onto a faint hope, when I watch the images of the day, that the ending will be different.

This year, Mother Nature stole the show a bit. Images of the ocean rushing past houses. A woman desperately searching for her terrified cat in a half-submerged bush. Defiant folks determined to ride it out. First responders, as ever, certain of only one thing: that not responding is not an option.

As time rolls by, hurricane ravaged towns will be rebuilt, and the memories -- at least for those of us who were not there -- will fade. Lower Manhattan gleams and thrives now, sixteen years later, with little trace of the torn up streets and debris and makeshift memorials and gaping ash-filled hole that remained for what seemed like an eternity, no trace of the surreal horror of a beautiful September morning obliterated, the deafening roar of a city's -- and a nation's -- silent scream.

My son, eleven years old at the time, told me, back then, that he wanted to be an air force pilot when he grew up. Maybe it was irrational of me to encourage him, all those years ago, tell him I'd be so proud. More likely I was being realistic; time and maturity and his own growing sense of mortality would cure him of this selflessness, and I would come through it all with both my patriotism and my precious son in tact -- a win/win. These days, as proud as I am of my daughter, I wonder if I would have offered up full-throated encouragement, a few weeks ago, had she told me before she and some friends set out on a road trip to Houston to help. Would I have been able to suppress the mom piece, the one that worried about all that water and all that bacteria and wanted to tell her she should just stay safe and toss some extra dollars in cans. Would I have been able to misguide her so badly, just for my own peace of mind? I hope not.

When my son moved to Japan five years ago, I had not so secretly hoped the threat of repeated tsunamis and radiation would give him pause. It did not. These days, with North Korean missiles flying over his adopted island country on a regular basis -- at least as I see it -- I thought maybe he'd think it was time to leave. He gave me the standard rational explanation -- that he's not in Seoul, so there's no need to panic. He mused, though, that he had contemplated moving to Tokyo -- a more likely target than his smaller city and, given evidence of pretty bad aim, the one place most likely to be missed.

I laugh at myself, wishing he would come back to this side of the world, where crazy things like missile fly-overs don't happen. Ha. Safety is a crap shoot; the best I could hope for if he came back this way is a greater chance of sharing a meal together. Nothing to sneeze at, but certainly not a good enough reason to interfere with his journey.

Square dancing on September 11 was a good thing. It made the day seem ordinary, to the extent that figuring out what it means to allemande left or wheel around means is an ordinary thing for me. What else is there to do, really, with so much craziness outside the square?