Friday morning, following telephonic oral argument on a motion before Judge Kaplan in Middlesex County, I worked while listening to the reading of the names from the National September 11 Memorial and Museum in lower Manhattan. It was, as an always is, a useful way to keep the problems of my day-to-day in proper perspective.
Oral argument concluded, Judge Kaplan's ruling went in favor of my adversary. The cherry on top of a green-bean-flavored ice cream sundae that began on Labor Day when we returned from the beach to learn that our furnace had died, taking our central air conditioning with it. While it was not "mid-July" hot last week, by Friday morning it was all Margaret, Sam I am, and I could do to blink in our house without beginning to profusely sweat. I am nobody's bargain on a good day, but when forced to live like an orchid or a hothouse tomato for a whole week, I transform into a heretofore-unexplored level of Dante's Inferno.
I was reminded close to 3,000 times on Friday morning just now piddly-ass and insignificant my "problems" truly are. I am embarrassed to admit that I needed to be reminded. Whether present at the Memorial or marking the day elsewhere, the families and loved ones of each person whose name was read aloud marked the nineteenth year since that person was ripped from their life forever. Their strength and perseverance has been - and continues to be - nothing less than extraordinary.
May your strength give us strength
May your faith give us faith
May your hope give us hope
May your love give us love...
"Into the Fire"
-Bruce Springsteen
-AK
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