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Look, I'm an American writer. I grew up back East taking school trips to NYC after fundraising all year long by selling candy bars, magazine subscriptions, and candles. The choir I was in sang at St. Patrick's Cathedral. Some of my best friends have lived in NYC at one time or another. During my more recent visits there, I found that living on the West coast had infected me a bit-- I move slower than most of NYC now, and my sense of time is more like island time than city time. But NYC is still a powerful symbol in the mythology of my life. When my friends make good there, I celebrate. When I see St. Patrick's I remember walking the aisles there.
And then I woke out of the shock. The looming questions after I woke up were: What now? What do I do now to heal this pain and loss? How do I reconnect with something authentic and peaceful again? How can I find my center, sturdy ground again? Of course for me, the answers always lie in poetry and writing. Quickly, it became apparent to me that those answers came for lots of people in the form of poetry and writing. We began seeing vigils all over the world where people left flowers, candles, AND poetry, notes, letters. People were
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