Etudes in water

As you approach the fountains, you first hear the water. It is soothing. Before you can take in the elegant walls, etched, all the way through I was surprised to see, with all the names of the victims, allowing natural light to come up through the letters giving them a life of their own, I was struck by the sheer scale, the size of the towers that I had somehow forgotten in a decade. Like a reunion with old friends, it was that moment that punched me in the heart. An acre each, these fountains, and it is awesome to behold the footprints once again, the negative space of the mountains I grew up with. The water sprays over the edge in small individual jets, giving it a specificity, a texture, and a mass. As it tumbles down the charcoal gray walls, the feeling of falling is as terrifying as it is inevitable. There is a comfort to that duality. The water then pools at the bottom, resting briefly like peace, placid, clear, forgiving, then falls to the center where a square of darkness swallows it up. That sensation of abyss, of loss still haunts me seven hours later. But I knew, as you will, that the water is pumped up to the precipice to start the journey over again. Nothing is wasted in the universe. I became very aware of the trees next. There are a lot of them, including The Survivor Tree, the one tree that lived beyond 2001 and was replanted in a grove that is airy and wide and as somber as it is peaceful. One can go any number of places and be alone, as I did, in this plaza of grace. Then, I took in the names. Having spoken in numbers for years, I found it a very different difficult experience to run my hands over the letters that were once a person. Wherever you stop, you can take in perhaps six names. And you can stop in hundreds of places. This is memorial art at its best: purposeful, durable, reflective, and forward-looking, dense and lithe as liquid. I suspect I won't ever forget my morning, my mourning, and the acres of the bluest sky I can remember over my head today.