A Blinking Light

It’s that time again, I think, as I stare out of the bedroom window towards a red blinking light across the Hudson. The blinker is my focal point, my end of day meditation.  I stare, reminded of Gatsby’s blinking light, a promise of hope,  but then my mind wanders and I remember the temporary “NO PARKING THURSDAY’  flyers tacked up along Riverside Drive. It is almost September 11. I make a mental note to move my car.  Soon, hundreds, maybe thousands of firemen will converge upon my neighborhood in dress blues for their solemn reunion at the Firemen’s Monument at West 100th Street.

My gaze continues across the river from my 14th floor apartment past the silhouettes of water towers and scaffolding, roof terraces and windows, eyes still drawn to the blinking light.  A barge floats motionless, waiting until morning to head north.  I hear but can’t see the buzz of a helicopter hovering nearby and the rumble of traffic on the West Side Highway.  A peaceful  end to an inconsequential day.

I had good luck finding this humble, cozy apartment several years ago with views of the Hudson River from every window. The first September 11th I lived there, I didn’t know the routine and while sleeping, my window open for the late summer breeze, I was gently roused by the mournful, dreamy sound of bagpipes. Then silence, commands and finally the gun salutes.

Now, a neighborhood veteran, I’m up earlier and sometimes wander downstairs to pay my respects. The firemen look beautiful in their fancy uniforms and hard brimmed caps. They never notice me or anyone but their own.  They socialize,  solemnly. It is their day.

As I look at the blue gray water of the Hudson,  I realize with a chill that the plane that hit the North Tower must have flown right above where I am now.  Low. Loud. Right above where I am staring towards the red blinking light, right above the barge and the roofs and the water towers, that infamous, deadly plane.  The rumble must have been deafening.  A quarter of a century ago. I close the shade.