I Don't Want to Know

Poetry is not my forte. Actually, I’m not sure what my forte is; perhaps remembering ~ or writing about remembering. In any case, on rare occasion, I’m struck with vivid recall that comes to me in rhythmic patterns ~ so I grab a pen or a keyboard and try to get it into writing. If it happens to end up in poetic form, so be it.

The following were some thoughts that crossed my mind the other day as I stumbled upon a photo of my dear childhood friend, Annie. She was not an extraordinary person ~ which makes her extraordinary death so tragically ironic. She was like me, like you, and like the thousands of others who went off to work one day assuming they would live and breathe for years to come.

I Don’t Want To Know

What did she think as she rolled out of bed
What thoughts were consuming her pretty head
Did she dwell on her workload, or on that night’s meal
Would she whip up a salad, or noodles with veal

What was she thinking; the breeze in her hair
As she traveled to work with nary a care
Did she think about laundry or missing the boat
Did she dwell on some problems ~ however remote

What was she thinking that September morn
While she trod to her job up the path ~ so well worn
Was she planning for lunch to go sit in the park
Was she hoping to get home long before dark

As she sat at her desk on the ninetieth floor
Was she sipping her coffee when came the loud roar
Did she hear it arriving or not till it hit
Was she worried at all that this could be “it”

What did she think while her tower tossed wildly
Did she panic or plan her escape, kind of mildly
I know that she met with some friends to discuss
The best way to leave without too much fuss

What did she say to her mom on the phone
While she still believed fully that she’d return home
I know she assured her that all was okay;
That she’d tell her much more at the end of the day

What did she think as she chose not to leave
As the others walked down - as was wise - they believed
Was she hoping to seek out the one left behind
Or wishing this was but a dream in her mind

Maybe she spotted her purse the last minute
And stopped at her desk to just grab something in it
Maybe she thought it was safer right there
As she looked out her window and saw the black air

What did she think as the plane hit her tower
“Could this really be my last living hour?”
Maybe she didn’t think much thought at all
As she scrambled and faltered and held to a wall

Did she smell things and see things that no one should see
Did she pray really hard to the powers that be
Was she frightened or calm in that New York second
Or did she go bravely as her heaven beckoned

I know I’ve been asking but now I’ll confess
I don’t want to know what she thought in distress
I don’t want to feel the great anguish inside
I don’t want to know how it felt as she died

In loving memory of

Anne Marie Martino Cramer

March 30, 1954

Aged 47 Years

WTC 2

September 11, 2001

(For anyone interested in reading a rather lengthy but complete story regarding our childhood friendship and more details of the events that swept Anne from her family and friends, see this post: http://thecerebraloutpost.blogspot.com/2005/01/pieces-come-and-pieces-go.html )