Friday, September 14, 2001


the candlelight vigil this evening on the brooklyn promenade was so touching. . .

to stand on the edge of brooklyn, in a pretty little narrow park that lines the most picturesque portion of the waterfront, that gives the most beautiful view of the manhattan skyline. wall street's just a home run away across the east river. usually the lights of the financial district, the lit windows of the charming, mostly art-deco ziggurats, the landmarks so well known to all from movies, tours shine so brightly and reflect in the river's gentle swells.

tonight, the buildings are sparsely lit, mostly dark, and in place of the trade center, the two towers that served as the whole area's nightlight, there's only a broad plume of dove-gray smoke, brightly but diffusely lit. this plume undulates slowly upward at a slight slant, and its brightness serves to delineate the contours of the financial district in a romantic way. looking at it, it's beautiful -- until you remember what ought to be there, why it isn't there, and the source of that lazy plume. . .

the promenade runs along the water, elevated above a highway, at the back of some of the loveliest buildings in brooklyn. the park is separated from the back garden of these buildings by delicate wrought iron fencing; and the balustrade above the highway is also spiky wrought iron fence.

as i walked along the 7 block length of the promenade in the twilight, many hundreds of people had left their candles on the spikes of the fencing; they had tied wreaths, flowers, hand-lettered signs. . .the candle light mixed with the park's old-fashioned gas light lamps to form an intimate and introspective glow. surprisingly, it was very very quiet; overhead you could hear the fighter jets circling -- but otherwise, only the wind and solemn murmurs of new yorkers, who huddled in groups. in any corner of the fencing, any little garden nook, people had deposited more candles, and around each large group of candles, people would gather, staring at the ground, their faces glowing in the half-light of a dutch painting.

rain earlier in the day brought a fresh, slightly chill breeze off the water. all smoky smell had vanished; the scent of hot wax floated in the cool air. walking along the vigil, feeling very solemn, i saw one of the directors of my company, and called out to her. i felt so buoyed to see her, a familiar face, i was almost cheerful. even though we spoke of events, and where our little software company would relocate, i felt a little happy. i even laughed a bit. perhaps it seemed inappropriate to her. she certainly was still quite saddened.

she had not yet contacted her friends who had worked in the towers. all of us in this neighborhood have had some phone problems, so it's still a bit hard to call around. it's so easy to think about those days i took for granted at the towers, the rainbow of people i relied on there, even if i scarcely knew them -- the hispanic man who made all my sandwiches, the korean woman who sold fruit salad, the bored jamaican clerk at the cash register in sephora, the eager woman with a queens accent from whom i bought a pair of shoes. did they all escape? i saw them every day, without knowing them. we undertook, almost mindlessly, the million daily transactions that make our lives in new york the way they are. almost mindlessly.

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