The candle in the window (September 11)

If three years is a pattern, then I use September 11 to mark time. Two years ago, I was thinking about the ritual I'd started that day a year before. Emotionally shellshocked, reeling with everyone, all I could think to do was light a candle in my windowsill before bed and gaze into it for a few minutes, sending out thoughts to wherever they go. It became something I did every night for more than a year. It was my bedtime prayer.

Last year, I was vaguely aware that there were memorial events for the terrorist attacks, off somewhere; three days earlier, Grampa had died. Then Daddy, Andy and I were travelling north, and it was a beautiful, beautiful day with flags popping at half-staff. John Ritter died. Grammy had a birthday and Grampa had a memorable visitation. Johnny Cash died. We arrived in time for the funeral. The cousins hung around the farm in the car listening to Nine Inch Nails.

I really can't wrap my mind around the fact that it's been a year, or that it's been three. But it feels right: we're not a year and forever out. We've made three journeys and come home every time. We remind ourselves to drop pebbles so we can find our way. We look for the candle in the window.