The telling of a story is an attempt to make sense of what has happened. Internally or externally. Someone’s inability to tell their own story denotes a continuing coming to terms with it. This is generally a good indicator that you’re still fighting the fight. That this particular chapter is still being written.

I thought a lot about what to title this post. Probably too much now that I think about it. After all, what is a title? Is a passage defined more by its title or by its content? My inclination is the content but, if you think about a blog post/short story/book/etc. as a thing that you put out there, that’s now existing independent of you; I’m sure many people do evaluate it base on title alone.
Anyway, September 11 took me by surprise this year. For some reason I’d been fixating on having a Friday the 13th this week and managed to forget the more inauspicious date. Like many people, even those with similarly non-traumatic memories of the day, every moment of that day is etched so clearly in my memory that it seems incorruptible. I’ll always remember driving home on a near empty 270 after spending hours at a friends from work’s house watching news coverage. How I was convinced the entire thing was a hoax that morning at work while people were flipping their lids all around me. Waiting for my roommate to get home from the school where she taught, not being able to reach her by phone. Wishing I’d said more I love yous, looked more deeply into the eyes of the people I cared about and let them know how special they were. These are things I want to remember. Things I need to.

Then I think of my aunt. How fast she’s losing the memories I’m sure she thought were enduring. How she lost days then years, soon lifetimes. How do we hold on? Is it even possible? Is it enough to have lived it, do we need the souvenir of a memory?

For who you could be and for who you are when you’re not trying to be who you think you should be.