as the rooster crows...

the older i get, the earlier i like to get up. it's like internally my body is aware that there is only so much time left over between this exact moment and whenever it is my ticket gets punched, and most of the day is taken up with mundane things like scooping the litterbox and emptying the dishwasher.

last week i got up very early for most of the week, just trying to keep my head above water. this week i doubt will differ; there is just too much to do and not enough hours in which to accomplish said work.

i think back five years to tomorrow, the day the trade centers fell. i think of the lives that were snuffed out, and the people who probably got up early that morning to get to the office, get their days started. how many cups of coffee were brewed prior to the first plane hitting? how many reports printed, files filed, voicemails checked and deleted?

how many people had yet to arrive, that day? what twists of fate those spinners tugged, what weavings they wove, to keep bodies out of the dust that day.

i think of all the souls whose lives ended and i think of their mentality. they were feeling just like me: the work is at hand, and it needs doing. they showed up that day, not knowing what it held in store. ready to share gossip over cubicle walls and curse at the copier.

what of all those people who were not in the towers, for whatever reason? those lucky, blessed number who escaped? we remember the day, we remember the fallen, we remember our emotions.

i think of the sole survivor of that plane crash last week, the one man who lived through cartwheeling flames. i wonder at the feelings he is only beginning to process--does he feel guilty to still breathe?

in college one of my fellow students was a gentleman about ten years my senior. i can't remember his name now, but i remember that he was a quiet, quiet soul. quiet in humor, quiet in contemplation. just quiet. his face did not bespeak silence--you know some people, with their animated features, the way they look on the verge of mischief or great thoughts. that was this man.

i asked someone, one day, if he was okay; i didn't know him well enough to touch his shoulder as i would a friend and offer support. he just looked bereft, or lost, adrift in thoughts.

he was in a bus crash, in south america somewhere. like peru, i was told. out of the eighty-some people on the bus, he was the only one who lived. he's been different ever since.

you cannot experience these things--this disastrous type of event--without being changed. the heat melts your mentality like lake ice in spring: the middle buckles, and all the waves push it up onto the shore, jagged until it trickles back into the lake.

i think of the blessed many who count each day as a day of luck, for having missed the subway or seen the dentist or buttoned their six-year-old's jacket instead of showing up to work right away. or those who called in sick, or late, whatever their reason.

i consider how early i must rise, tomorrow, to begin my day. i cannot know what tomorrow holds. it probably will be the same menu as friday, as thursday, as last week and month and year, crowned with a gray cubicle.

those whose lives were lost, i remember you. but today, i raise my glass to you, you survivors. your existence reminds me daily to be grateful for the bumps and potholes in life, the endless jostling. i will be quiet, like my quiet college compatriot, and remember how glad i am to be.

just be.