When my mom was sick, people used to tell her she was “so strong.” She knew they were well intentioned, but she hated hearing that. “What choice do I have?” she would ask.

Our city bruised but not beaten. The indelible images impressed on my retinas are invisible to him.

It was not until I saw the World Trade Centers burn, not until we saw the skyline — our skyline —swallowed by fire and smoke and soot, I grasped the gravity of what was happening.

Today, there was laughter. I wiped away tears from my eyes. We had come full circle.

This place refocuses me on the profound magnificence of this world, the trivial of the problems of this life, and the fact that there is so, so much more.

I never get very far; just the thought of waking up without her in the world catches my breath and brings immediate tears to my eyes.

That’s what mothers are. We are not all optimists in the cheery, rainbow sense. We are optimists when it comes to our own ability to endure