Good morning…
Last Wednesday, the sun rose on a new day in Winder, Georgia, a quaint, welcoming community less than an hour outside of Atlanta. Students, heading into a normal day at Apalachee High School, were suddenly terrorized by a 14-year-old shooter. Nine were injured. Four people died. Mason Schermerhorn (14). Christian Angulo (14). Richard Aspinwall (39). Christina Irimie (53). Let’s write their names on the walls of our crowded hearts and pray for all of their grieving loved ones.
Twenty-three years ago today, the sun rose on a new day in New York City. Ordinary people, heading into a normal day at the Twin Towers of the World Trade Center, were suddenly terrorized by al-Qaeda as two hijacked suicide planes crashed into the tall buildings, collapsing them to the ground. Countless, countless people died.
“It would be good if everyone paused to reflect not only on what evil wrought that day, but also on how Americans came together in the aftermath,” wrote my dear friend this week. “How awesome would it be if we all could recreate that cohesiveness as a nation without the terrible loss of life and lasting impact on so many families on that day 23 years ago. I commend Billy Collins’ poem, The Names, to you. It never fails to make me weep as I read it aloud on September 11.”
******
The Names by Billy Collins
Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night.
A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze,
And when I saw the silver glaze on the windows,
I started with A, with Ackerman, as it happened,
Then Baxter and Calabro,
Davis and Eberling, names falling into place
As droplets fell through the dark.
Names printed on the ceiling of the night.
Names slipping around a watery bend.
Twenty-six willows on the banks of a stream.
In the morning, I walked out barefoot
Among thousands of flowers
Heavy with dew like the eyes of tears,
And each had a name —
Fiori inscribed on a yellow petal
Then Gonzalez and Han, Ishikawa and Jenkins.
Names written in the air
And stitched into the cloth of the day.
A name under a photograph taped to a mailbox.
Monogram on a torn shirt,
I see you spelled out on storefront windows
And on the bright unfurled awnings of this city.
I say the syllables as I turn a corner —
Kelly and Lee,
Medina, Nardella, and O’Connor.
When I peer into the woods,
I see a thick tangle where letters are hidden
As in a puzzle concocted for children.
Parker and Quigley in the twigs of an ash,
Rizzo, Schubert, Torres, and Upton,
Secrets in the boughs of an ancient maple.
Names written in the pale sky.
Names rising in the updraft amid buildings.
Names silent in stone
Or cried out behind a door.
Names blown over the earth and out to sea.
In the evening — weakening light, the last swallows.
A boy on a lake lifts his oars.
A woman by a window puts a match to a candle,
And the names are outlined on the rose clouds —
Vanacore and Wallace,
(let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound)
Then Young and Ziminsky, the final jolt of Z.
Names etched on the head of a pin.
One name spanning a bridge, another undergoing a tunnel.
A blue name needled into the skin.
Names of citizens, workers, mothers and fathers,
The bright-eyed daughter, the quick son.
Alphabet of names in a green field.
Names in the small tracks of birds.
Names lifted from a hat
Or balanced on the tip of the tongue.
Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory.
So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart.
******
Pause. Reflect. Remember how we came together in the aftermath of tragedy? My friend’s question crowds into our hearts. How might we recreate that cohesiveness as a nation without more terrible loss of life?
Scripture shares our only true answer. O Eternal One, through the night, I stop to recall Your name. That’s how I live according to Your teachings (Psalm 119:55, VOICE).
…Sue…
P.S. Photo by Aaron Lee on Unsplash.
