On Oct. 8 Joe and I flew to New York for three days, guests of our oldest daughter and her lovely man.
They treated us to unique tours of Brooklyn and the city from bikes -- or, more accurately, from three bikes. Nothing in 6-foot-3-inch Roberto's collection of nine sleek racers suited my small frame, so I was popped into a roomy, cushion-padded, low-slung steel basket in front of a specially constructed pumpkin-orange cycle, whose smaller wheel led the way. Off we went, helmeted and happy, launched from his stunning Brooklyn home, a converted ping-pong ball factory boasting enormous interior pillars.
We threaded expertly through Brooklyn's tree-lined neighborhoods while he offered a fascinating running commentary above me. (New York has made a special effort to encourage cyclists; every convert means one less car. Roberto, an architect, pedals to his job in Manhattan every day.)
People gaping at the rickshaw arrangement gave thumbs-up signs. Motorists grinned widely, yelling, "You got 'im trained, lady!" Clouds and sun played tag; mischievous smatterings of light rain polished our helmets without dampening our spirits.
Eventually, as we pedaled over the awesome Manhattan Bridge into the heart of New York City, the sun triumphed. Only one fluffy cloud decorated the sky's blue vault.
Towering skyscrapers astounded me, a four-story lady. There weren't many people about on this lovely Sunday morning. Fresh coffee-'n-bagel-sniffs mingled with sea air amid the muted sounds of New York, sleepy.
I asked how far we were from the Twin Towers' footprints; "Not far," Roberto said, quietly. And so we went there.
(Joe and I, noting the empty space from the bridge while admiring Lady Liberty, felt -- drawn.)
There were no viewing platforms anywhere; only a tall, temporary wall, displaying large color photos of the construction site within, surrounded the enormous pit. Giant rust-red crane arms pierced the sky.
Today was an uncanny duplicate of Sept. 11's perfect morning.
We climbed to the top stone step of a huge, neighboring government building, and looked. Other people nearby put away their cameras and stood quietly, trying to comprehend the unimaginable. Traffic sounds faded ...
I beheld the ghosts of two slim, immensely tall, gleaming buildings belching flames and obscene black smoke, struggling to retain their structural integrity. I beheld the ghosts of hundreds of airborne, framed family photos and flapping briefcases that joined thousands of post-it notes and memos fluttering alongside bewildered, frantic birds. I saw battalions of resolute, sweating, yellow-coated firemen laboring up countless stairs laden with heavy equipment, and heavier hearts. I saw well-dressed men and women raining down -- people who'd made an unthinkable choice. They fell quietly, for an eternity, arms and legs still, laser-focused on beloved, cherished faces, on God.
I saw two dying steel giants holding on, until they absolutely couldn't, and then, as they fell, trying to stay exactly over their allotted footprints, so as not to kill one more innocent.
There was no sound. Only this vivid vision.
A long time later, I returned. Joe's hand reached for mine. Our cheeks were wet. There were no words exchanged.
Nobody has spoken of this visit, even now.
Refolded into my nest, we biked past that blanket of quiet, of shadow and light, of unimaginable heartbreak and unfathomable evil.
Church bells rang; people emerged from these elderly structures into the sun, blinking, laughing and exchanging greetings. Buses chugged along; hopeful pigeons pecked at sidewalk cracks; the city shone.
Crossing the Williamsburg Bridge we wove quietly home through Hasidic neighborhoods, Chinatown, the Village -- through lovely parks, past little bakeries and laughing children, savoring their colors, and life.
Dee Blair's Sunnybank Gardens are closed for the season. Visit her Web site, www.deeblair.com for more information. Find more of her columns online at record-eagle.com/deeblair.
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