I
AM Corybantic
pg.5
The sex-toy party was cozy, intimate.
You do NOT understand the restraint I showed by
not walking out with some phallic-buzzing-item
stashed in my purse. I’m such an
exemplary citizen and sex-toy party participant.
But now I know where she lives, and I know where
those toys are. And I just can’t make any
promises that I won’t be back there, sneaking
around and trying the door handles (to see which
one is OPEN, you pervert, not for anything else,
I mean, a door handle is a FAR cry from a parking
meter).
Remembering Jeffrey –
11 September 2003
A few weeks ago, my grandmother
died. I hardly batted an eyelash, and even the
one batted was more for the guilt I felt for being
happy about it. Here we are, though, exactly two
years from the day I woke up to find out that
Jeffrey was one of the firemen that was in the
building that collapsed, and the slightest reminder
brings tears to my eyes. Of all the things I feel
like I control, I never pretended to believe that
I could control my emotions.
Some of my family is at Ground Zero
today, paying respects, remembering, reliving,
mourning. Like so many other innocent people,
doing their jobs in the building, Jeffrey died
while doing his. His body wasn’t found at
first. My cousins searched Ground Zero every day,
finding unspeakable things, pieces of people,
fragments of life in the rubble. They didn’t
wear masks. They didn’t miss a day. They
were exhausted, but driven to find him. Candles
were lit, prayers were recited, and finally, a
month later, a funeral was held. After the funeral,
his body was found, crushed, along with a handful
of other firemen and a few civilians. Closure.
I wrote about it then, and as I
write about it now, I see the story hasn’t
changed. The family is torn apart. People are
angry, devastated, stuck. Unable to heal or let
go, but how can you blame them? I’m distraught
with the pain and the memory of the entire tragedy,
the loss of a cousin I loved, the pain of going
back to see where it happened, the sadness of
the ceremonies. I’m able to move on and
let go. Things might be different if he had been
MY son, if it was one of MY sisters. So I can’t
urge them to “move on.” I can never
understand that level of suffering. Though mine
is true and real, I would never think to compare
it with the vast depth of torment that my aunt
is experiencing. That my cousins are experiencing.
I can’t imagine the trauma. I feel for my
family. I want for them to continue to live and
laugh as if Jeffrey were still here.
But he was the one who always made
everyone laugh. I don’t have any answers.
I know that thinking about it makes me cry. I
know that I feel pain and loss and sadness. I
know that nothing can bring him back. I know that
he liked to see us laugh. I know I wish to see
my aunt laughing again, to see the family together
in laughter and love, which is how I grew up knowing
them.
I know I need to stop typing about
it, stop thinking about it, because I’ll
never get any work done today if I continue to
cry like this.
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