Two steady streams of pedestrians on Broadway, south of the Houston Street perimeter. Heading north are the triage teams. Doctors and nurses, some in scrubs; unidentified workers, police in jeans and t-shirts, dusty, 9mm pistols at their sides. Others head down, shift on shift, or drive by in emergency vehicles. They are transporting heavy earth-moving equipment west along the shabby length of canal. Sanitation trucks hose down the streets, attempt to rid them of the ubiquitous gypsum. Dump trucks. Humvehs. Ambulances. Some race, some politely wait for the light and let you cross.
It is-like a Sabbath, here. Unearthly quiet for this place. Subdued. Alert. A time to reflect.
The world is divided between upper and lower Manhattan. There, north, the workers may not even pass through downtown on the way to work, the bereaved are fewer. And divided again. Those of us who live downtown are mostly spectators, not admitted to the perimeter as much as enveloped by it. The Battery still echoes with yesterday's explosion. The shockwave drove bereavement across the rivers, skimmed the harbor waters. We are in the eye of the storm: around, a wall of unimaginable pain, and lives ravaged.
What God could ask such sacrifice? If God *is the God who creates in destroying, we are bound to deny him. Not to pile hate on hate. And if to deny such God is folly, then folly is the best of humanity.
