The end of another
month. Summer is gone. Indian summer is gone. November is usually grey, as grey and hazy as this morning, wet like the asphalt of Washington Street is wet today.
It's a long sadness, this recovery from the September 11th attacks and the on-going threat - anthrax, what else we don't know. Yet if we run and hide, the terrorist has won. I will live my life and - if it comes to that - die my death.
As I step outside, it is a mild day. Clouds, broken blue in places.
Saints. We need more saints. Like the fire fighters in NYC who died, of whom I cannot yet speak. Like all the good folks who die selflessly across the land, across the world.
Again today by the time I reach work the sun has broken through. Again today I go to duty.