I have a handful of archival photographs from a digital archive.
I have the memory of picking blueberries and watching the sun disappear and the clouds turning into sentient beings.
I have the memory of peeking in windows.
I have the memory of being toured around inside the buildings.
I have memories six years old, one year old, and they live in me, my husband, my son.
I have the knowledge that some men died in the top floor of the main building. I have this picture of my son in that spot:
I have a lot.
I have a little bit.
I have a lot of work to do.
And I like to work, so that’s good. I like these people who have been so brave as to call themselves forward. It’s time to get to work (again).