I'm a writer, publishing both as SJ Rozan and, with Carlos Dews, as Sam Cabot. (I'm Sam, he's Cabot.) Here you can find links to my almost-daily blog posts, including the Saturday haiku I've been doing for years. BUT the blog itself has moved to my website. If you go on over there you can subscribe and you'll never miss a post. (Miss a post! A scary thought!) Also, I'll be teaching a writing workshop in Italy this summer -- come join us!
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Capt. Brown's flowers
Went out for my regular morning walk today. New York, as secular a city as you'll find, still grows astoundingly quiet on Christmas. Most of the traffic is taxis and buses -- few cars, no delivery trucks, no bike messengers. Some people walking their dogs, some heading to church, but few to work, so the sidewalks are close to empty. No one's rushing, no one's shouting into a cellphone. The Jewish delis and Pakistani newsstands are open, and the Chinese restaurants. Movie theaters are, and some diners; but the difference from the everyday is striking. As a Jew I have no emotional relationship to Christmas, but I love the sudden silence of the city.
My usual walk just takes me around the neighborhood, but this morning, like the last 2 Christmases, I went over to Union Square, a half-hour away. I bought flowers -- yellow tulips -- from the newsstand and took them into the subway to the 9/11 memorial by the Transit Police station. This is my favorite memorial because it's impromptu and unaesthetic: an alphabetical list of names, interrupted here and there with photos of the towers, produced on some some large-bed printer, laminated and duct-taped to the subway station wall. It went up within weeks of 9/11, and immediately people started writing messages to people they'd lost, taping up photos. Someone early on taped up a mass card from the memorial service for a firefighter I knew, Capt. Patrick Brown, and that first Christmas I brought flowers and left them there. Christmas doesn't have meaning for me, but it did for him. I left some last year, too, and now it's a tradition.
No, I don't think he's there just because his photo is. And yes, I know the Transit Police will take that memorial down someday. I mean, duct tape? And no, we weren't close, Capt. Brown and I; we'd met in the company of mutual friends and had a drink once or twice. Remembering him on a day that mattered to him is really reminding myself to remember what matters. The 364 days of the year when the streets aren't unusually quiet, those things are easy to forget.
My usual walk just takes me around the neighborhood, but this morning, like the last 2 Christmases, I went over to Union Square, a half-hour away. I bought flowers -- yellow tulips -- from the newsstand and took them into the subway to the 9/11 memorial by the Transit Police station. This is my favorite memorial because it's impromptu and unaesthetic: an alphabetical list of names, interrupted here and there with photos of the towers, produced on some some large-bed printer, laminated and duct-taped to the subway station wall. It went up within weeks of 9/11, and immediately people started writing messages to people they'd lost, taping up photos. Someone early on taped up a mass card from the memorial service for a firefighter I knew, Capt. Patrick Brown, and that first Christmas I brought flowers and left them there. Christmas doesn't have meaning for me, but it did for him. I left some last year, too, and now it's a tradition.
No, I don't think he's there just because his photo is. And yes, I know the Transit Police will take that memorial down someday. I mean, duct tape? And no, we weren't close, Capt. Brown and I; we'd met in the company of mutual friends and had a drink once or twice. Remembering him on a day that mattered to him is really reminding myself to remember what matters. The 364 days of the year when the streets aren't unusually quiet, those things are easy to forget.
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