On Monday, I went to the park, where, for the first time in a few years, I ran my favorite (most brutal) hill workout. I felt like I was going to die, but in a mostly good way.
I thought about seven years ago, when I ran this hill workout in the dawn hours before we said goodbye to Dante, whose birthday we celebrated on 9/11. He would have been twenty-three years old this year. (I still miss him.)
It’s good to have something nice to think about on 9/11, like Dante’s birthday.
9/11 is also my mother’s birthday. On the actual day, I remember her calling me, worried that I was in the towers.
She was turning seventy on 9/11 and this week she turned ninety-five.
Like birth and death, the passage of time is incomprehensible.
I wonder if Clio remembers Dante. She wasn’t very nice to him, but I try not to hold it against her.
The morning of the most recent 9/11 was cloudier than the original one, but the weather was still beautiful and dreamlike, the way September can be.
I took the train to a lake outside of the city.
I dove into the water, which was clear and cold (but not too cold).
