As the anniversary of the World Trade Center attacks approaches, memories resurface. From atop the Prudential building, at the North end of Grant Park, work took me into many skyscrapers. That particular building afforded a view of the new Millennium Park construction, the obscuring of the rail beds to make a green space above them. It was an amazing transformation, covering the unsightly with a spectacular view, both natural and beautiful, to replace the mechanical mess of iron and soot.
But September 11th, 2001, brought additional images I had not expected. Huddled with others in a top floor conference room, watching a huge screen television as the towers crumbled, two monuments to human achievement devastated in moments. Someone near the windows pointed down to the street below the concrete, glass and steel structure in which we stood. People were streaming from the adjacent building, a speedy evacuation from a potential target along the lake. If there were to be attacks in Chicago, lakefront skyscrapers would be easier to assault than those deeper within the Chicago skyline. I just wanted to go home.
No one could have predicted the events of that day or their effect. The images will always be in my mind, the towers crumbling, the people from the neighboring building spilling out onto the street, the frightened faces of those around me. A month later I was no longer downtown everyday at the tops of those buildings. Though I could never put those images from my mind, adjusting my environment could help me return to an approximation of what I had once considered normal. Life began to follow loss.
While considering this article, my thoughts turned toward the current state of things. The retaliation on Al Qaeda that led to Afghanistan then followed to Iraq and elsewhere in the world. Troops being spread thinly wherever our leadership believes we might need to fight those who might plan repeat acts of terror. As the number of new recruits falls short, reservists and veterans are called to regular service. Homeland security is beefed up and alertness is on high. The rules have changed and we conduct ourselves differently in the way we view new faces and our surroundings.
Waiting for a train home, I smell smoke. Just a cigarette but having quit some years ago it has a way of conjuring past memories, particularly those awkward days just after the attacks. Holding back a scowl and glancing at the smoker, I clear my throat and mumble my displeasure. He apologizes and moves to stand on my other side so that the wind no longer forces me to share his addiction but he obviously has graver things on his mind. I strike up a brief conversation to break the tension. Mentioning that I had noticed the price of cigarettes around the corner topped seven dollars a pack, he replies that his cost four in Georgia. Detecting no accent, I ask what took him there. He explains that he was visiting his son in the V.A. hospital.
His son, a reservist, was on his second tour, a few weeks from coming home when he lost his right hand to a roadside bomb in Iraq. The father, glad his son was not killed, spoke in hopeful tones about the progress of the physical therapy and the new technology and prosthetics available. It will be an amazing transformation, the addition of a mechanical wonder to replace what was natural and beautiful. There is hope the young reservist can relearn quickly how to write, not the least so he can share his thoughts on his experience. He will never forget. His reminder will be at the end of his arm. His life will never again be as he once considered normal. A different kind of life will followed loss. He just wants to come home.