(c) Central Park, 1999
Photo by Loren Jenner
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911 Grief
A Year after Tomorrow
Her heart will heave in a dull ache, chiseling another crevice through thickly fettered terrain. After snot-ridden sheets and tear-stained pillows, she will rock in the recliner beside the big picture window that overlooks the mountains. She will watch the fired oranges and yellows spawn above her at sunset.
God’s salve will ignite her smoldered soul.
The sun will rise again.
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Today
A faint, orange glow behind gusts of black smoke engages a pinstriped North Tower. A whizzing, angled jet heads for the South Tower’s upper belly, easily penetrating it like a knife to butter. Suited people fall away from the sentinel’s edges like crumbs dropping from an Oreo cookie.
The South Tower collapses. The other follows in solemn succession. What’s that about the Pentagon? A jet downs somewhere in Pennsylvania.
She withdraws into herself. No. Just no. Her shocked spirit shifts beneath a warm blanket turned cold. The Mamas and the Papas croon, “Man, the world’s on fire. Somebody take us away, take us away …” Was yesterday real? She hears the tick-tock of a clock in a far away corner.
Yesterday
As she trotted to the water’s edge, her breasts bounced in unison. A slight breeze brushed her body like the smooth, slow flick of an artist’s hand stroking oil paint onto canvas. She hadn’t ever remembered feeling this open, wild and free.
She lay down upon the wet sand as the water trickled upward to the vast cave of her womanhood, like a tiny, trusting brook flowing back to its home. Sensuality slid its hands along the sides of her torso as she felt the groan of the earth beneath her, pulsating and rising to meet her unabashed soul.
She slowly rubbed her hands against her slippery belly as the open sea eagerly reached for the grainy salt water sticking to her. Despite the balmy breeze and unusually lukewarm water, a campfire on the distant shore licked the air, calling her to it, like a gypsy to its forgotten home.
Tomorrow
She will witness a shy sun peaking through the barely cracked Venetian blinds of her hotel room. A warm stream will loosen her before she dries off with a maroon terry-cloth towel. When she wipes the steam off the mirror, gentle sadness will emanate from her countenance. Life will pool at the bottoms of her brown eyes.
She will believe he’s alive after a lengthy second of ascending breath. She will remember when she was unable to turn away from his deep green eyes on the day that they had met. Blame for not calling him yesterday morning or driving to New York City to find him will haunt her. He will be in the lobby, or smiling and waving to her on TV, saying he’s alright. Even though she will know that he’s gone, she will have to believe otherwise.
(c) Copyright 2008, Loren Jenner, all rights reserved.
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