<Explanatory note: I've been honing my writing skills at Zoetrope.com. One of the workshops I 'belong' to there posted an exercise topic: write a flash (fiction of no more than 1000 words) or a poem about 11 Sept 2001. I couldn't bring myself to do it; I posted this instead)

Yesterday morning, I listened to the national Poet Laureate, Billy Collins, read a new poem titled "Names" to the special joint session of Congress that assembled at Federal Hall in New York City. It was not his best work, and I felt for him, being required by duty to compose an Official Poem for such an occasion. I wondered if his heart was in the work.

When I received the Zmail about the Flash topic here, I knew my heart wasn't in it. My fiction and poetry have other purposes. Anything I can bring myself to say can only be a personal essay, a fragment of a memoir - and the thought comes immediately to mind: "Who cares what I think?"

My generation has had too many "where were you when?" moments: a Kennedy, a King, another Kennedy; Kent State, Apollo 1, Challenger... too much grief, too much horror, too many thoughts of the ultimate terror of the knowing victims in their final minutes, too much irony in the relative mercy for those who died instantly, with no warning at all.

As I write, the High Holy Days have begun. During the next eight days, we Jews will repeatedly ask God to forgive the sins we have committed - not as individuals, but as a community, as a people. Perhaps if we Americans ceased, even for a moment, to wallow in cries for vengeance and instead, as one voice, asked God to forgive the sins of all mankind...