8:46 AM 9/11/02

Three thousand voices cry out in shock and awe at the mournful moment
A crisp, clear morning is shattered by fire and fury.
Frantic chatter from little wireless boxes fills the air,
And only the essentials matter now:
“I don’t want to die.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Take care of the kids.”
“I’ll be with you always.”
“I just want you to know I love you.”

I hear them even now, phantoms flitting about my head as the daily grind Halts on yet another Black Tuesday.
Each gently asks, “Remember me?”
They gather round and tell their stories of life and love:
John, who loved soccer and coached his kids,
Suzanne, who loved her little sister with Downs,
Mario, who considered fine wine with a good meal and the company of Friends a sacrament,
Max*, who loved tinkering with old Mustangs and playing the trombone.

Thousands more come, they who loved family and friends, cold lemonade On a hot summer’s day, the “good tired” coming at the end of a hard Day’s work, the view of a sultry sun setting from a front porch swing.
They crowd around, pleading, “Remember…remember us!”

They are angry now, and together they cry “Patriot!”
And from the main streets others come, from backwoods, bayous and the Bronx they answer the call, a nation’s sons and daughters coming to their Mother’s aid,
Fledglings forsaking spring for a season of sacrifice.
Around a flag and a cross-shaped piece of steel they make their stand,
Learning the old, hard truth; “Where freedom is found, blood has been Shed.”

I push on now, as a drudge who watches epic battles raging ‘round
And wonders what he would do should the fight come to his front door Tomorrow.
My companions whisper words of comfort in my ear as they fade away:
“Brother, to remember is to fight,
To remember is to raise us from the dead.”

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I composed this poem on the morning of the first anniversary of 9/11. Max Hammond*was a Huntsville native and a 1982 graduate of Grissom High School where my oldest son currently attends. He was a National Merit Scholar, an accomplished trombonist and earned a PhD in physics from UCLA. He was on a business trip to California aboard United Airlines Flight 175, the second plane hijacked and subsequently flown into the South Tower of the World Trade Center. He was 37-years-old.

More stories of Max can be found here and here.

And finally: Peggy Noonan on “The sounds of 9/11.”