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Echoes of Silence
by Gary Kennedy
To those silent voices;
Unable to utter the defiance of their last moments:
She sat at a desk, jotting in a daily planner.
They sat in the boardroom, planning the deal of the day.
They faxed, they e-mailed, shredded that importance of the moment, that
soon be trivial. The makers of the big deal, the movers and shakers, all
soon and suddenly neutralized.
They sat calmly, waiting to taxi out. A pilot's voice shouts over the
"We are #3 for take off." Those passengers aboard the plane to
towers, staring out the windows for the last glance of Beantown's
what a beauty!
That Hancock tower reaches out to the pinnacle of Boston's panorama. One
passenger with a thick, Irish Boston twang, exclaims "Yeah, I know
the big twins but it is Bawstin's pride."
It would be the ride of all plane rides, a sad swan song for all.
That morning they had boarded a guided missile to their ending, their
ultimate sad destinies!
Down the 1100 ft. sheer face, the window washer with an artful sweep of
squeegee, performs for thousands, above Broadway. No booking agent here,
actor's equity or dress rehearsal, for his performance!
His venue 'seats' the millions, that gaze to the heavens toward the
invincibility of silver twins, to witness the performance of a mad man
on the scaffold. So many have watched over the years, so many have
up to get their bearings!
Above all, the grand-dames, the Goliath monoliths shimmering. A
the place they dwell, that we rise above all, and were the masters of
Could the sea of humanity in her twins know the carnage that would
I think not. Could we imagine in our naiveté that these two symbols of
time would wither in an instant? What voice of warning would have been
heeded, what conference call, e-mail, what rider on horseback from
village sounding the alarm!
"To arms, to arms! The Redcoats are coming!" and this
morning's sky would
turn a fire red! Ten thousand bull horns maybe, but this time it would
the Redcoats, that would wreak havoc upon our innocence!
An unbridled hate had seized the moment, to deliver the message that
needed to pay. For all the fear of scarcity from oppression,
warped sense of justification. They come, from another world, time and
to send a message, to all. Not some disco in Israel, or some
obscure far off
place we could measure in the evening's sound bite. This was an
Mayberry, mom and apple pie.
The perfect crime, in deed and execution, with the total capitulation of
most. Yes, in that moment something in America was still the same, 100
of that plane before it redefined us as a people, the small distances,
there is no going back. No going back to a Sunday trip to the
mall, hop on board a
shuttle to Las Vegas for a night of decadence, it has all changed.
The mind sees the missiles and disbelieves the visual. These
just do what I think they did! This was just a preview for some action
thriller. No, it's live, wake up America, it's time to pay, say they.
This mess is gonna take more than "Thing-one and Thing-two" to
clean up, says
the "Cat in the Hat."
The foot of violence has dealt the blow to my groin, I wither and sit
waiting for the pain to subside. We want it all back, we want it
all to go
away as if it had never happened.
Please God, tell me this hasn't happened. Where are you, my
"Gary Condit," top news and local human interest story?
Can we even remember the name of the missing intern?
"Hey buddy, what was the score of the Yankee's game," and who
"Hey buddy, I am lost somewhere in Manhattan. I can't get my
they're gone from the sky." The twins have fallen. Just the dark
smoke rising and the silence. Along with them America as we knew it just
in front of those planes
I am not sure if it worked or not, that hole left in the ground, has
hole in all of us on some level, a darkness, larger in some, but a
all, from lost employment, changed relationships, different habits. We
all been harmed, and it isn't over yet!
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