The candle warmed my face. It was a breezy night, one of the first that
really felt like fall, and the flame danced and sputtered in front of me. Other
candles came to life, bathing the gazebo an eerie glow. I thought how strange
it was that this was the first Sept. 11 I’ve observed by lighting a candle.
I guess that’s how it’s done in the civilian world.
Each Sept. 11 on the Florida military base where I was stationed, life
stopped for a moment. No one was too busy to pause and remember. But there, we had
reminders every day—our camouflaged uniforms, the Rotator shipping out a new group
on deployment, bringing a group home. The routine absence of family and
friends. The memorial outside the chapel, the plaques in the air park, the
streets bearing names of those who would never return.
When I was in Afghanistan, we held a remembrance ceremony on the
helipad—the only space large enough for our formation—ducking from dust and
gravel kicked up by the rotor blades of incoming helicopters. We didn’t have to
work to remember there, either; each of our lives hovered in the aftermath. If
we got too comfortable, there were 17 faces to bring us back, watching us from
behind frames on the conference room wall, under a sign that read "Fallen
Comrades of Paktya Province."
Out here in the real world, reminders are scarce.
Even I often get distracted. I stress about schoolwork and my new
internship and the cat hair that clumps in the corners of my living room. Then
I see a news report on Afghanistan. Or another name. Or something unexpected
that brings me back to camouflage and dusty helipads and faces on a conference
room wall.
Sometimes it’s more comfortable to forget.
Today, flags flew at half mast, and the TVs at my gym streamed footage
from 11 years ago. But traffic swirled around our little vigil, students
chatted and laughed on their way to class, the metallic bing! of bat-on-ball rung out from a baseball game across the park.
There weren’t enough candles to fill the star etched into the gazebo
floor. I wished there were. With two empty tips, it looked like a feeble
effort; a tribute made and then hastily forgotten.
I knelt at one edge and tipped my candle, letting a drop of wax stain
the concrete. I set the base of the candle on the drop and held it until wax
merged with wax and it stood upright on its own. The crowd thinned. The moment
had passed.
Adjusting the shoulder strap of my knapsack, I walked down the gazebo
steps, back into the real world. I turned once before leaving.
My candle was lost in the collective glow, a small marker of light, of stillness on a busy city night.
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