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  • Tomorrow....

    There is an instrument called the quena made of human bones. It owes its origin to the worship of an Indian for his mistress. When she died he made a flute out of her bones. The quena has a more penetrating, more haunting sound than any other flute.

    Tomorrow in the hushed landscape of unfound hope music will rise from the wailing moans of sobbing flutes.
    From an airless night a thousand stars stitch together a nations grief, unresolved, in a sequined quilt that bounces off the midnight sea. From the eyes of a Hunter's moon, a random gust of wind shrivels the paper leaves and turns the earth over again.
    All things which have run a vertical course turn into circles as legions of dazed survivors prepare their return to the site of this hopeless despair.
    Even now, we expect to see miracles rising from the ashes. We lean into smoke and grope for other worlds...secret places, deeper wisdom, and yet we are blinded by the bitter cold of death's defeat.
    I try not to breath, yet I lean in and sigh, as if knowing how close angels are to my soul, I could easily disappear.
    How simple it would be, and yet, I hold on...we all hold on. And tomorrow we will return to the painful cauldron of this grief, not for miracles, not for hope...but instead we return for those who have lost EVERYTHING. Death. Such a hungry thief.

    We have traveled in a circle on a journey between fear and hope.
    We will strain to hear the voices that have traveled through this storm and in a voice that won't be silenced we will recount EVERY ONE.
    With the rusty sound of curses and the harsh cries that issue from the Alpha to the Omega in the last paroxysm of war, we will surrender to the powerful forces of shoulders that have carried us so far. Tomorrow, we will come empty-handed, openhearted. We come to save what can be saved.

    And stirring long after every ghost is still, the waves will return and tide will come in. But tonight, oh tonight...we must look towards the moon and ask "Why?"

    "Just like a dream experience...whatever things we have enjoyed
    Will become... a memory
    Whatever is lost...
    Will NOT be seen again." (the Dali Lama)

    In the face of this unspeakable sorrow, we return to memorize our wounds. We will NOT forget these precious scars. We will not forget to NAME every ONE! But tomorrow the circle returns to it's beginning. And from here we will never be far from that Tuesday in September. To remember...to re-count...to speak names out LOUD...to bring back the stories and become a collection of chapters that will not be defined by what we've lost, but instead... cemented in stone that will rise from the ruins like a monument of courage.

    Tomorrow, we begin all over again. NOT alone and NOT remembered for the places we bled. Instead, we will step into the light of our finest hour...and do that which is required...and reach beyond our limits...and lean into tomorrow, never stronger...never braver...never taller than we stand now.

    God bless New York. God bless America. We WILL rise and we will shine...UNITED and undivided.
    Colleen McQuaid

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