9/11

She let the boy (now a man) cry; the warning never took. You could explain it all a thousand times, but the desire to go back was so great ... so unshakable ... that there was nothing for it. She put the kettle on and spooned instant coffee into two mugs; he took cream and sugar (she had seen it), so that went in as well. "You warned me," he said (when she returned to the living room). "It's just so hard ... so much better and so much worse than looking at photographs." She nodded, accepting his attempt at a smile with compassion. "I know," she whispered. "Be good to yourself today; don't go back to work. Rest. Treat yourself to a nice dinner." He nodded (bravely). "In just a short bit of time," she continued, "you'll feel the edge of the sorrow dull and then there's kind of a general marveling about it all. There's beauty to be found in it eventually." Before he left, he doubled her payment and hugged her; some did (hug) and some didn't. It was easy to take them to the day before - the past was right there, in parallel to the present; shift them over and back them up a bit and it was 9/10 all over again. Last phone calls. Promises of fun times just ahead "when I get home" or "when I get back". Final words. It was easy to go back and hard to return, because you know what you know and pain does not deceive.