Pieces Falling

On Thursday, May 15, 2014, President and Mrs. Obama attended the dedication ceremony for the National September 11 Memorial Museum. Stakeholders  were selected by lottery to attend. A couple of my fellow docents attended. I did not.

For the first week the museum stayed open twenty-four hours a day to allow family members, 9/11 rescue and recovery workers, survivors, lower Manhattan residents, and first responders from agencies that lost members to view the museum.

I was apprehensive about going, but I wanted to go to see for myself what it was like, so I could comment intelligently if asked about it.

“Do you and Tony want to go to the National September 11 Memorial Museum with me?” I asked Carol. “I’m not really sure if I want to go, but I think I should.”

“Sure,” replied Carol. “Are Meghan and Kyle coming, too?”

“No, I mentioned it to her, but she wants her first visit to be with just Kyle.”

“Tony can drive us in.”

“Sounds good,” I said. “It will be a short visit if you don’t mind. I definitely want to see Bruce’s photo, the cross, the Last Column and the Bible, but I am not sure about the rest of it.”

“You’re the boss.” She chuckled.

Docent friends informed me the museum was like visiting the Holocaust Museum. Only problem with that comparison was I had never been to any Holocaust museum or watched Holocaust movies, as that tragedy had always felt overwhelming to me. How much harder would it be to visit a museum where I had a personal connection?

On May 18, Carol, Tony, and I ventured into the museum. As we approached the airport–style security screening to enter the museum, Tony realized his belt had a knife in it. He explained his mistake to the guard as Carol and I looked on and shook our heads in disbelief.

We rode the escalator down to the exhibit halls as I held my breath. I walked quickly through the first dimly lit passageway as I heard recorded voices of people telling where they were as the events unfolded. I walked toward the light I saw ahead of me.

The light at the end was Foundation Hall. I stood on the balcony level surrounded by the bathtub walls as I looked down on a massive open space where the Last Column bearing the letters SQ 41 stood. The vastness and starkness of Foundation Hall seemed to speak to the magnitude of the events.

From there we descended farther down toward the two exhibit areas: In Memoriam and Historical.

“Let’s do the in memoriam first,” I said as I walked in that direction.

As we entered the dimly lit space, we noticed the walls covered with the photos of all the people killed on September 11 as well as the six victims of February 26, 1993.

We quickly realized the photos/names were alphabetical and walked in the direction of the end of the alphabet toward the Vs. Bruce’s photo was at the bottom of a row.

We glanced in the display cases to see personal items that families had donated, including sports jerseys and a flute. I had donated Bruce’s Appalachian Trail maps which weren’t on display yet but would be a year later.

Carol, Tony, and I walked over to video tables. I searched Bruce’s name. We viewed the photos I had donated—Meghan and Bruce at her eighth–grade graduation, Bruce and Charlie on the Appalachian Trail.

I lifted one of the handsets, placed it to my ear, and heard my own voice:

“Bruce left Bibles on the Appalachian trail. . . ”

Future family members will hear my voice telling stories of Bruce. That’s cool.