turn and face the change.

In honor of the tenth anniversary of the 9/11 attacks, I wrote this, without really intending to sit down and do so. I scribbled it during class and have transcribed it now for you. Let me know what you think.

Turn and Face the Change

I wasn’t there.

In fact, I’ve never been.

The beaming lights are a beacon

to the structures that once were –

thousands of lives, yet so little time;

Ash. Dust. Metal. Fire. Scraps. Trapped.

Millions were much closer than I 

who will live that day over again in their hearts

every day.

It serves as a new way of looking at everything, isn’t it?

Do you look at a passing fire truck the same way?

Do you think longer when you hear sirens?

Or look at the clock at 9:11 and let your mind wander?

Does your brain go on a journey to that day spontaneously?

New York. Virginia. Pennsylvania.

Three states have a claim to fame –

one which they never desired,

almost three thousand families share a date of mourning,

one which they never expected.

300 million Americans  have a patriotic bond, one that

Shouldn’t have had to be created only when tragedy struck,

But did anyways.

Children who never met their father but can say they’re

The offspring of heroes.

Thousands of people who woke up as citizens and

Died later that day as supermen and superwomen.

Never has there been a recurring nightmare in the minds of so many

Restless people on the eve of

The day that changed it all.

They day the man in red, white, and blue

Cried tears because of the red blood shed,

Masked in the white haze of ash, on the morning that should have been


Lady Liberty held fast but her fingers trembled,

Yearning to reach out across the bay.

There should never be a day which marks the

Annual tears of so many eyes.

There shouldn’t have been a day as horrific as that day.

Engrained in all of us, the

Whole world will remember that feeling,

That location,

Those numbers,

The heroes,

The victims,

And the perpetrators.

And now, what do we need to do?

We need to consider what we are doing:

Twisting the knife?

Prodding the wound?

Or acknowledging a scar?

We haven’t forgotten.

And we won’t.


About Christina Moore

Originally from Portland, Maine, I now live in Chicago and work with extraordinary nonprofit organizations to help them champion their individual causes. My heart is in the 207, and my feet are on the ground in the 312. Enjoy readmoore!
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