I am surrounded by metal arms

swooping forward in a salute to those who lost their lives.

Golden lights illuminate the tiny engravings,

hundreds of names and dates,

names and dates that mean the world to some.

The families who lost someone on the planes

seem to be there, standing with me.
Their cries drift by me in the breeze,

and settle on the benches.

We must not sit on these benches.

They already carry so much pain and loss,

and were they to carry more weight,

I fear they would crumble,

crumble like the shoulders of everyone on 9/11,

like my mom and aunt,

who lost their high school friend

to the attacks.

The darkness crashes down on me,

crushing the air from my lungs.

The light from the memorial is painfully bright:

a chaotic fire against an onyx sky.

When I close my eyes,

the fire bites at my eyelids,

I am still able to see them:

The names,

engraved into the benches,

engraved into my brain.

The names and the dates of those I don’t know,

But I won’t ever forget.