From all accounts, New Yorkers have come together in beautiful ways over the past 48 hours. People are aware of the fragility of others; they have followed Ms. Holzer's advice: they have turned soft and lovely, they have found ways to be very tender.
The one and only time I've been through anything nearly this traumatic, the same thing happened. There were about ten of us involved. We were emotionally, physically, psychologically raw, and we took care of one another. For a solid week, we gathered each night, had dinner, sat around the living room talking and reminiscing, holding hands, making one another laugh. It was a bonding experience that none of us would have chosen, but we went through it, and as horrible as everything seemed at the beginning of that week, by the end of it, we'd begun to function normally again. Our appetites weren't what they should have been, and we didn't quite feel like celebrating yet, but we'd built each other back up enough to face everyday life. A full week had gone by: we wanted to see other people, do normal things. So we did.
Since that seventh day, that Saturday, I haven't really spent time with many of those folks. I mean, sure, I'd see 'em on the street, see 'em at the corner bar. But it was as if they'd forgotten the closeness we'd developed over those seven days. Maybe they just didn't want to relive it all. Maybe they moved on faster than I did. I still remember it as a beautiful shining week when things were clear: we knew what was important and what wasn't.
Hold on to your memories of now, take pictures, make notes, because--fortunately and unfortunately--things will return all-too-quickly to the way they were before. Or, again in the words of Ms. Holzer: "Savor kindness, because cruelty is possible later."
