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May
30, 2002, 8:45 a.m.
So
This Is 40
Milestone day.
By Susan
Konig
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May
30, the traditional Memorial Day before everyone got a Monday off. And
today, the victims of September 11 will be remembered at Ground Zero as
the recovery effort officially ends.
Today I turn 40.
Ordinarily, I think
this milestone birthday would have consisted of take-out Chinese,
construction-paper cards and Botox jokes. We're a busy family with three
young children, tee-ball practice, and bills to pay.
But since September
11, turning 40 is more significant because, as I scan the list of victims
identified in the newspaper, it's hard to find people who were older than
I am today.
Chris would be 35
now. He wasn't my real cousin but our dads are best friends and his
parents have always been "Aunt" and "Uncle" so he was
my "cousin."
Because we grew up
together and rarely saw each other as adults, I think of Christopher as a
perpetual four-year-old boy to my eight- or nine-year-old self. Our dads
were pals since childhood, and Chris and his folks spent a lot of nights
with us at my parents' weekend place on the North Shore of Long Island.
He was the only
little boy my sister and I knew intimately by virtue of being under the
same roof. We were definitely a girly household and this young Hot Wheels
connoisseur with big brown eyes was a fascinating departure from everyday
routine.
Christopher was
coddled by his mom, adored by his dad. His mom used to lie with him at
night until he fell asleep in our unfamiliar house. If he called out after
bedtime, my mother, who doted on this son she never had, would sneak him
jelly sandwiches in bed to make the strange surroundings seem more
friendly and fun.
I've often referred
back to those days as I raise my own young sons, aged five and two. I see
that little boys can be afraid of swimming in the bay and watching movies
with tarantulas in them. A boy may have a special blanket he loves. Chris
had "cozy." My sons have "blankie" and
"gunk-gunk." A boy might have an adversarial relationship with
the family cat and still love that pet.
Then a boy can grow
up to be a handsome, successful businessman who gets invited to management
breakfasts at the Windows on the World restaurant in the World Trade
Center.
When I saw her last
summer, Christopher's mom offered me his business card and said,
"Call Chris, he'd love to hear from you." As I stashed the card
in my bag, I remember thinking, "Oh yeah, he'd love to hear from his
old, married pseudo-cousin in Westchester." I figured he was busy
being a cute single guy in New York, in the prime of his life.
But when I heard
the news that there'd been a cell phone call and then nothing, I reacted
as a mother. I sat on my five-year-old's bed as he slept and I cried and
cried.
At the memorial
service for Steven, who married my sister's childhood classmate and worked
at Cantor Fitzgerald, a lot of the girls from high school showed up. As we
gathered in the church hall afterwards, Sarah, the class clown from 20
years ago, went outside for a smoke. She suddenly appeared in a picture
window with her face against the glass. She blew with her lips on the
window so that her cheeks puffed out and the smoke from her cigarette
slowly billowed out of her mouth. We had to stifle a laugh because it was
silly and gross and a sign that nothing had changed since high school.
Except that one of us was a widow with two small children to raise on her
own.
When I visited
Ground Zero in October, I gasped and thought, Chris is in there. Lisa's
husband, the two young dads from our church. It was so paralyzing, I
forgot to say a prayer.
Of course, this
sense of loss has occurred in previous generations. The young have
perished in cruel numbers in the pursuit of noble causes. But we were
still children during Vietnam. We came of age in peace, somehow thinking
war was a thing of the past. We grew up slowly because there was no need
to rush.
By September 12,
we'd grown up overnight and we continue to travel down that sober and
adult road. Girls like Sarah will still be able to make us crack up when
we get together, only I guess we're not girls anymore.
This is 40.
Comforting widows and orphans, mourning eligible bachelors. And putting
away childish things.
Susan Konig, a journalist, has just written a book, Why
Animals Sleep So Close to the Road (And Other Lies I Tell My Children).
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