In my dream, it was snowing. Two planes were flying too low, like winged cabs rushing through the Financial District, lower Manhattan.
The two invisible pilots struggled to navigate a blizzard that turned to ice, flash freezing their planes and stringing them up over a streetlight by Liberty Street, dangling them like two early Christmas ornaments, decorating the World Trade Center, 9/1/01.
I woke, counting my dead hours at Ground Zero, days digging for bones I’d hoped I wouldn’t find. Whispering, “Rest in peace.”