On this 25th anniversary of 9-11, I share a post and a poem, both written 10 years after 9-11. May the memories of all those lost -- that day or months or years afterwards because of that day -- be a blessing. “Those god-awful towers,” my father said in disgust. He wasn’t alone: we all thought they were wicked ugly, too big, and besides, they would and did block the light from our neck of the woods, three blocks away, never mind that we were underground. Down the steps to the

Yesterday I attended one of the most moving ceremonies of my life. “From Fear to Hope: Commemorating 9-11,” held at the Dole Center for...

I I wrote this poem for “From Fear to Hope: Commemorating 9-11,” an interfaith event at the Dole Institute of Politics, where I read it this afternoon. Ten Years Later Ten years later, we share the same open heart broken and confused, waiting and reaching toward the kind of hope that trembles slightly in the wind of old fear, yet unfolds its song. The clear blue of that day still shines with what can’t be replaced, who can’t find his way home again, why anyone would shatter

“Those god-awful towers,” my father said in disgust. He wasn’t alone: we all thought they were wicked ugly, too big, and besides, they would and did block the light from our neck of the woods, three blocks away, never mind that we were underground. Down the steps to the Fulton-Nassau Street station was a small arcade of stores, including our own, the Subway Stamp Shop, which my dad and grandpa ran. I grew up spending many Saturdays and holidays there, emerging frequently for