The days leading up to the day are fitting times to speak of it and to write of it, even unto September 10. From my perspective people ought to attempt to make sense of it from their own perspective, whatever that may be, and in the way that is most comforting for them.
Historically, the number of our lost may not compare to the number lost in London under the blitz, the fire bombing of Dresden, the saturation bombing of of Hamburg, Hiroshima, the unknown number in Cambodia, or the unimaginable number lost in the defense of Stalingrad. But the problem with the slaughter of innocents lies not with big numbers but amid the small numbers, most particularly the number One.
The One that was his.
The One that was hers.
The One that was theirs.
Tomorrow is the day for us to exercise that right and to undertake that obligation that all people everywhere have–and again historically, always have had—to mourn the loss of their own innocent ones at the hands of others.
As of today, I am finished with words about this. Words roil my emotions. Tomorrow I intend to hike out into the deepest solitude amid the bleakest landscape that I can find and wrap myself in nearly perfect, calming silence.