Thomas’ Dream Journal, September 11, 2012

In my dream, it was snowing.  Two planes were flying too low, like winged cabs rushing through the Financial District, lower Manhattan.

The two invisible pilots struggled to navigate a blizzard that turned to ice, flash freezing their planes and stringing them up over a streetlight by Liberty Street, dangling them like two early Christmas ornaments, decorating the World Trade Center,  9/1/01.

I woke, counting my dead hours at Ground Zero, days digging for bones I’d hoped I wouldn’t find.  Whispering, “Rest in peace.”

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