Requiem Aeternam

Remembering all those who died this day 5 years ago. Today it seemed that we were all wrapped in our own memories of September 11, which was a day very much like today. As I rode the #1 to work there was even the same eerie stillness as we crept toward Times Square, but today it was just a bomb scare at Penn Station that held us up. As we waited and wondered what was going on, I thought back to my own last glimpse of the World Trade Center, on September 9th. After a protracted Cursillo team meeting at St. Paul's, a visit to Snug Harbor and a late Italian dinner, I had been compelled to spend the night in remotest Staten Island and had to take an early bus back in time for church. On my way to the bus I glanced up and beheld Joe Grillo already up and painting his upper terrace. We had only met the night before briefly as his sister-in-law and I sat out in the yard between their houses and drank several glasses of wine before realizing it was much too late for me to start for home. Joe had not been drinking, evidently, or else had some marvelous inner drive to get up early on Sunday morning to paint his terrace. At any rate he was in better spirits than I was as I staggered toward the bus. He gave me a big grin and looked like he was in his bliss. Well, to each his own, I mused, as I made a brave effort to get back to my bliss, High Mass at St. Ignatius.

I was dozing as we rumbled into Manhattan and suddenly there they were: those twin towers that one never got tired of marveling at. Up close they were simply massive. The morning was crisp and clear, the streets all but deserted as I gave them a long admiring glance before closing my eyes for a few more moments of rest.

48 hours later Joe Grillo was arriving for work as a Port Authority controller there at the North Tower. He called his wife Mary about 9:15 and said he was on his way down. Most likely he stayed behind to help others try to escape because he was just that kind of guy. Those who knew him better than I said he would never have dreamed of just running for his life. And I'm quite sure there were many unsung heroes that day that did their best to help others, as the famous Man with the Red Bandana, but Joe was never heard from again. He left behind two teenaged boys and a wife (my good friend's sister), as well as many relatives and friends who waited for days in hope that he might come walking in, dazed and confused but alive. I who scarcely knew him was haunted for months by the image of him grinning and waving goodbye that pleasant Sunday morning. Joe, may your soul and all those who died that day, rest in peace.