A year later, I watch the
recording.
I watch the speck that must be you
jumping from the 106th story
to your imminent death.
(But maybe all the
nine year olds
think the same,
only
about who they lost).

Watching it in reverse,
I think you’re flying,
like the birds we used
to watch together.
You spring up from a
cloud of black ash,
and you soar back into
the crumbling building,
which seems to
repair itself in
reverse.
I watch the building
rebound the crashing plane,
like some extraordinary force.

I’m thrown backward in time
and you’re sitting at the kitchen table,
glasses on, tie undone,
shrugging your shoulders
the way you always did
when you questioned
life.

My mind jolts
back to reality,
and I cannot
breathe.
Even though a year has
barely passed,
it will always feel
like it was just yesterday.