I’ve hesitated to post this, because the last thing on earth I want to do is sound in any way like I’m trying to make a buck. And yet, the whole subject means so much to me: it’s not about the book.
My first thought on waking up this morning:Â I’m so glad for the life of my younger brother.
His subway into Manhattan was late.
My second thought was: And for my cousin David’s, who from his office watched the first, then the second. And made the long trek home on foot, with some shopkeepers somehow taking the personal risk to stay on the scene to be able to hand out water to the stranded walkers.
May the heartfelt coming-together of people of many faiths that I wrote about in my book, the experience that propelled me to do that work–all the writing, all the knitting, all the hours and months and even years involved, because I wanted that one particular story in print and out there in the world if I never wrote anything else–grow and be and become the triumph indestructible, a testament to the world. “May America always be like this!” one man there exclaimed that day.
Amen.