My nephew Patrick, my Aunt, Sister Marcella LaKoske, OP (age 91!) and I all have something in common. We were all born on September 11. While trying to make sense of how one can celebrate anything on 9/11, I wrote a poem. This poem is for everyone born this day:
Conversations with God and the Baker
For Patrick, Sr. Marcy and Me
Part I: Conversation with God
Please, Sir, may I change my date of birth?
No, not the years
I’ve earned them every one, for what it’s worth
Just the date
Formerly unobtrusive
Typed anonymously into the 254th square of my DayMinder ® calendar
No Magna Charta signed
No pilgrim landed
No mention in the dusty tomes of history
Just the beginning of three familial lives
Brought forth in consecutive generations
By couples seeking warmth and love on a late December night
But now
It does not seem right to celebrate a day
When towers burned like candles on a cake
And sacred ashes frosted the streets and
Seared the lungs and disbelieving eyes
Of those who prayed
That they could make a wish
And blow out those candles
And stop the fall of concrete, beams and glass
That wrapped those unexpected gifts to God
I understand
You must not undo what has been done
And anyway
To change a date
Is not the healing answer to the question
Instead we will stand strong and resilient
And celebrate life
On a day so tragically marred by senseless destruction
Part II: Conversation with the Baker
“Please Sir, make it red, and white and blue.”
Cynthia Ann Conciatu © 09/11/02
2003 Award -National Pen Women of America/Clearwater Branch
Note: I originally posted this in 2008. In June, 2009, my dear Aunt, Sister Marcy passed away at age 91.
.JPG)
