Sunday Morning, New York

After a proper Sunday breakfast [it's New York!], there was one more visit on this trip's agenda. A place I hadn't visited since December, 2001.

Names are stamped into the borders around the waterfalls that pour into the open footprints of the twin towers, a ceaseless cascade of tears. Thousands of names. I needed no hint from the computerized directory. The North Tower. Flight 11. I found Paul's name.

I toured the museum, but it was too much. Fourteen years, it seems, is not long enough.

Fluctuat nec mergitur.