New York City

I remember I was in my room.  My first apartment, on Ave. C and 3rd St.
And I remember how annoyed I was to be woken up by my band member and roommate. 

I almost recall trying to say something nasty, but was a bit hungover and too slow to spit it out.

The news was vague, but horrific.

Before we knew it there was dust in the air.  Soot.  Ashes...from bodies and buildings.  
People with names.

..................................................................................................................

We didn't know where to eat.  Not that we cared.
But none of us knew what to do.

Cafe Orlin was open on St. Marks Place.

I have held an irrational disdain for Orlin ever since.
I never realized why until now.

They were still serving.

We went to 85A a day or so later.
And drank like nothing happened or
maybe like everything did.

Sometimes the hardest things never truly ease.
The persistence of their memory.

They become a part of us.
Goosebumps.  Uncomfortable.  And persistent.

That I can never, and would not ever want to forget.