Tenth of September

It started about four years ago. Somehow, the impossible happened: I began forgetting that summer’s creep into September means that September 11th is about five minutes away.

When I remember, it’s not, oh my god it’s almost 9/11 that comes rushing at me: It’s, oh my god it’s almost 9/10.

I’ve forgotten so much about the days leading up to September 11, 2001, but I remember the weekend prior with the clarity of the September sky.

On that painfully blue weekend nineteen years ago, my then-boyfriend (then husband, then ex-husband, now friend) D. and I were staying at a B&B located around the corner from where I write this now.

We had taken the weekend away from our normal summer routine–train from our apartment in Manhattan to our annual summer rental on Fire Island Friday night, weekend at the beach with the usual suspects, Sunday night commute back to New York. Insert a week of work. Repeat.

Instead of Fire Island, at my request, D. and I had come to the town where I spent my childhood summers. Oh, Eastern Connecticut Shoreline. Oh, the history. The beauty. The people, the memories! Oh, my heart.

North Cove, Old Saybrook

So, on September 8th D. and I drove out of the city to stay at my favorite B&B for a long weekend. We didn’t know it at the time, but we were staying at the same Inn where we would elope one year later. Where we would decide, feeling expansive and scared as hell, to make an offer to purchase a home.

The very home where I now sit typing, upstairs in my office.*

We’d spent the weekend before 9/11 visiting the haunts of my childhood. My favorite waterfront restaurant. “My” beach! The fields around Town Hall.

I realize now that bringing loved ones to the Eastern Connecticut Shoreline even before I lived here was, and still is, a way of reminiscing about something that still exists. Unlike so many other aspects of life, this place still FEELS the way it did when I was a child. Still!

The evening of Sunday, September 9 was hard. I was anxious and sleepless, and we were still two months shy of my choice to try prescription anti-anxiety* meds to combat night monsters. D. and I were leaving for New York the next morning–back to the apartment we shared, to the alarm ringing at 5:30, the race to the gym/home/downtown/work. You know it: The Grind.

Note that these are all things that I now long for with an ache that I cannot describe.

However: I couldn’t sleep on that Sunday night. I was anxious. The weekend, for me, had been a tumble of emotions and I attributed my growing sense of dread to simply not wanting to go home, to life as usual. (Imagine? Read that sentence again.)

I’d tossed and turned most of the night. Our room was feeling increasingly claustrophobic–not normal for me; I’m a New Yorker! I’ve slept in a closet and called it a bedroom. So I wrote a note for D. telling him where I was going (texting each other with little plastic flip-phones was not yet a thing), dressed and walked down the street to the beach.

The sun wasn’t up; it was that pre-dawn grey that slowly glows into daylight. I sat on the stone beach stairs, swaddled in sweatshirts in the salty pre-dawn air. I’d brought only a notebook and pen. I remember writing and crying, and not knowing why. I remember trying to hear my therapist’s voice in my head–something I still do!–looking for any explanation for the anxiety that seemed to have taken root at the base of my lungs overnight.

My life is good, I kept thinking. What is going on? What am I so nervous about??

Reading what I’ve just written, I think ahhhhh, time. In 2020, I can tell you exactly what I was so nervous about, then and now!*

On that Monday, after daybreak turned into morning, D. sauntered down to the beach stairs. He listened, I cried. To him, mine was a clear story about loss: This summer place, this haven, the whole magical Eastern Connecticut Shoreline, had always been my oasis. The day of leaving, D. reasoned, was bound to surface deep feelings of unease.

This sounded reasonable to me. It was time to go home.

Within 24 hours the world would change.

But on that breezy September Monday, I dried my eyes. We walked to the same Dunkin’ Donuts that is down the street from where I write this, now. We got road coffees, said goodbye to our gracious hosts, and packed ourselves into our rental car.

We took a ride to say one last goodbye to the beach. And we went home.




*Another story, another time!

Posted on September 10, 2020 at 4:48 pm
Lisa Dorsey | Category: New York

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