I want to go back.
I want to go back to those days after when we cried and huddled around computers, TVs, and phones to make sure loved ones were safe.
I want to go back to those weeks after when we hugged strangers on the street when we saw that familiar look of fear and longing in their eyes.
I want to go back to when I walked into my local pub in NYC and the survivors of my local firehouse were dancing to Copacabana at 1:00 in the afternoon.
I want to go back to the tears of joy shed by my fire chief — who got the job because his chief and half their house perished — as we presented them with donations and a gift of a fireman’s helmet signed with love by grateful neighbors.
I want to go back to seeing that same chief singing at the top of his lungs at Madison Square Garden to that horrible but heartfelt anthem by Paul McCartney.
I want to go back to when I was followed by a southern State Trooper — not because I was a guy with a guitar and Jersey plates, chain smoking as I raced down I-95 to see friends — but because he just wanted to know if I was OK.
I want to go back to when we loved each other.
I want to go back to when we wanted to keep each other safe.
It was a time of pain.
It was a time of hope.
It was a time that is lost.
And now, I’m just sad.
All the time.
We’ve torn ourselves apart.
We continue to tear ourselves apart.
Where is the love?
When will we come together again?
Will we ever come together again?
I’m still hoping but it’s getting harder.
“Imagine all the people, sharing all the world.”
Love.
Hugs.
Peace.
