No.172: Do We Remember?
I wanna join the wave and say
but I don’t.
For all I know,
I was at the back of a 1st-grade class,
tuned out, uninterested, wandering
in my six-year-old head,
unaware of the events
that would shape my world,
my studies, my career, my day —
at work I see survivors turn victim
after almost two decades,
I still hear of their deaths,
I still carry my badge in spaces that still speak
like the sting is still there,
I watch a black woman get stripped down
as TSA scours through her hair,
the sound of war still rings clear.
A whole generation raised without a sense of fear,
and yet, the marks still tear through the halls of Congress
like a memento from Hell.
I wish those families well.
Those whose wounds have been forgotten,
drowned by the sound of placid comments like
Because I don’t.
I can only imagine the damage whispered by the smoke.
I was raised in New York,
but even I can’t fathom what those planes took.
I wasn’t cursed with that particular memory.
But if I died
from serving on 9/11,
I would hope
that you truly remembered me.