How will we heal? By Jim Warda So much of what I do lately is tainted by September Eleventh. At the amusement park, I take my son on a ride that climbs high into the sky. But, at the top, when I should be laughing with him, I'm instead looking down from two hundred feet up. Wondering what it was like for those who jumped from the World Trade Center, so much higher. Then, later, we put up Halloween decorations but I find myself numb. Wondering how I will ever be scared by a werewolf again when the monsters we've seen lately have looked so human. Or when I put my daughter to bed. I kiss her forehead and whisper a prayer that there won't be more attacks. That she'll simply never have to taste that fear. And those are what my moments have been like these last few weeks, struggling to see beauty in a world that seemed to betray me. Because, like you, my heart has been broken by jet engines. But I also know that we do have a choice. In each moment, the gift of decision waits, and we decide what we see, and whether life or death will cast the grander shadow. So, next time, at the top of the ride, maybe I'll find a way to only think about the fact that I'm holding my son and he's laughing and I love him. And maybe he'll turn his eyes up to mine and tell me that he loves me, too. And, somehow, we'll help each other heal. Not easily and not quickly. But, as in all grief, moment by moment. «:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«^i^MISSI ^i^«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§« Richiele Marie [email protected] (Missi) I disbelieved in reincarnation in my last life, too. »§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«:*´`³¤³´`*:»§«