This morning in the garden, the birds sing in the pure bright sun light. No one has told them to be quiet and remember the dead. Their lives go on in a parallel universe  quite unconcerned with me. They bicker and peck at each other, holding  claim to a  space in time where a ripe berry or an insect will feed their hunger for a brief while.  They do not remember the day when a fire-ball of hatred consumed the Twin Towers. They don't speak our language. They don't understand us.

This morning in the garden the gentle warmth of September sun caressed my back as I picked orange and purple dahlias for our home. A chorus of crickets droned incessantly in the long grass beyond the garden fence. Their pulsing song speeds with an urgent tempi. They can feel the shortening hours of daylight and the coming of winter. But the crickets know nothing of the sorrow of mothers and lovers, children and wives who seven years on, search the emptiness of their hearts looking for loved ones. 

This morning in the garden the traffic beyond the fence on Boylston Street whizzes on by. A rude biker on his too powerful chopper  roars through, dominating the moment with threat and menace. The news on the radio  solemnly remembers the outrage of terror as over head a wedge of Canada Geese rise from the tall reeds by the Muddy River, honking commands to order their  flight  pattern.

This morning in the garden the dark purple butterfly bush radiates sweet honey perfume that dances in the warming air attracting two saffron-orange Monarch butterflies. These seemingly delicate travelers of continents have no interest in the elaborate precautions of men searching airport luggage for secret explosives and weapons.

Now in the safety and order of our home I arrange the garden flowers. I am quiet, I am solemn and I remember