There's a quality of spectacular blue that September skies have. A deep azure that calms, soothes, and envelopes you. It's a blue that I look forward to seeing every year after days of air thick with humidity.
There's a smell the air gets in September, the smell of summer past her peak, the signal of time of harvest, where nature's fruit have reached its ripeness. And the air chills a bit, nips at your fingertips. You crave the comfort a light sweater. The smell of a possibility again. Beginning new again. Like the smell of school supplies, new clothes that children wear for their first day of school. Starting over. September, I can smell her in late August at dusk, when the sweltering heat breaks, the breeze caresses your arms, and the ripeness of summer subsides for something new to be born.
Because something else has started to die. Fruits fall off of trees, settle in the earth, a season has come to an end.
In September in New York, at dusk, twin columns of light pierce the sky. The twin lines of light are angelic against an indigo sky.
In September in New York, as I find a quiet joy in the smell of autumn approaching, I remember the smell from 7 years ago, when lower Manhattan was a cauldron, and the lost souls on that fateful day, the 2800+ victims, and how that space became sacred. An unlikely burial ground.
I remember them. I remember New York. I remember the 11th of September.
And we remember in our own quiet ways. Some of us were heading to work. Some of us were sitting in class. Calculus. Fluid Dynamic Physics. Some of us were supervising field operations on a construction site in the Soundview section of the Bronx. Some of us just finished voting for the next Mayor in the Primary. Some of us were on the subway heading downtown, uptown, crosstown. Some of us had just woken up. We were everywhere that day. And we remember.