IN THE MORNING, the sky is the exact blue that it was on 9/11, 19 years ago last week. It is an arcing blue, between cerulean and turquoise, tender, not rich, not deep, not thin or fragile. A distinct blue that I will always think of as 9/11 blue.
That day, on a television that a reporter brought into the small Oxford, Maine, office of the Lewiston Sun Journal, I watched as the planes and the buildings exploded and fell beneath that inescapably blue sky. After we had put out two papers, an afternoon edition for the day and the paper for the 12th, I drove home to Peter.
On the way, I watched a bulky bearded man get out of his truck and cross the yard in front of his trailer, heading for the door. He held the hand of his small daughter and talked to her as they walked, and she looked at him with love that I could see, in the deep-blue shadows of the pines in their small yard.
A Last Thought