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The Eleventh of September: In Memory of Our Heroes (Orchestration Version) (mp3)

The Eleventh of September: In Memory of Our Heroes (Acoustic Version) (mp3)

The Eleventh Of September: In Memory Of Our Heroes (Lyrics)

Erik@ErikBernstein.com

The music: erikbernstein.com/music.html

To the 403 families of the policemen, firemen and Port Authority workers who lost their loved ones on September 11, 2001.

9/11/02 - Oldest Memories From Before



Wake up hon, its time to rise, today’s a special day,
Mom needs help to look our best, there’s much I’d like to say.
Let’s get washed and brush your hair, you’ll shine among the crowd,
The dress fits fine, and you look great, your father would be proud.
I wish I could explain it hon, its not the way we planned,
For now, just watch and listen, someday you’ll understand. 
Now go down the stairs, the car awaits, Mom needs a moment’s time,
It hurts so much; I can’t let on, oh the horror of this crime.

The Driver waits at walkway’s end, the door open in his hand,
His uniform is cold and dark, yet his eyes are warm and grand.
She hesitates at first, at her first of many rides,
Reassuring eyes prevail, across the seat she slides.
He stands there still, his role defined, the future preordained, 
Mom appears and hugs him close, their heritage retained.		
The door is closed; he climbs in front, Mom glances toward the sun,
He looks back first and smiles strong, their journey now begun.

They pass their tree-lined neighborhood, where neighbors watch like trees,
Mom looks through another world, where leaves float in the breeze. 
Shadows grow and darkness swells, buildings taller with each mile,
The Driver watching in his mirror and, the mirror hides his smile.
Sitting next to Mother close, she sees Mother far away,
Something wrong the others see, refusing to look away. 
No words are spoken, silence rules, there are no words to say,
She recalls what Mom has said, just watch and learn this day.
 
Other cars arrive in line, with others close behind,
Other drivers drive the line, with all an equal kind. 
Gentle shepherds tend their flock, and begin to blaze a trail,
Through a sea so blue and dark, with steps so small and frail.
Hand upon her shoulder, the Driver parts the sea, 
To an unknown destination, his hand a solemn plea:
Follow me and trust me and I’ll guide you through this maze,
You will come to comprehend, and I promise better days.
And she took him at his word, as she took the seat beside him, 
As the speakers spoke their names, and an image formed within,

The seasons change and change again, despite the steady course, 
The years a patient witness, themselves a guiding force.
Many times her mother tried, to explain their time and space,
The Driver never tried at all, but simply held his place.
But the picture came together when she found one winter day, 
The photos old and tattered, of men older than today.
Their bodies bent and battered, their faces ashen gray,
Their place amongst the rubble, their church where they would pray,
Here she learned her father’s fate, lost for her to see,
Climbing up against the tide, and swallowed by the sea. 
And in ceremonies to come, a picture so engrained,
Of uniforms clean and neat, where the stain of loss remained.
 
They were always there it seemed, the fabric of her youth,
Grounding her in early days, a reminder of the truth.
Their small apartment always full, of men with different names,
Holidays and weekends, and all her high school games.
A goliath in the goal, they found life amidst her play,
And she found play amidst their lives, her uncles old and gray.
Yet their presence felt the most with her mother so revered,
The care which they extended, the hopes which they endeared,
Allowing her to laugh out loud, and listening when she cried,
He would have done the same for them, for his brothers’ brides.

The kitchen sink is filled with clouds, dishes hidden from her view,
Precision steps belie this fact, as blindness seeks anew. 
The window glass her viewer, and in the corner of her eye,
The solitary figure moves, beneath the autumn sky.
A carpenter’s coat to keep him warm, a rake to keep his yard, 
Leaves line up in nice neat rows, none get past his guard.
Steady strokes of non-stop work, satisfaction with his chore,
He looks up quick, as if on cue, eyes meet as before.
A friendly wink, a gentle wave, from this uncle old,
Hands still wet, she smiles sweet, a moment he will hold.
No words are spoken, silence rules, there are no words to say,
Our friend resumes the task at hand, paid in full this day.

The Driver past away last fall, asleep in his easy chair,
Watching his beloved Yanks, battle in the cold night air.
Climbing back from seven down, they fought to own the day,
He left the game before they won- going away.
They heard the news together, and her mother lost her hold,
While her child held her loss, and resolved to fill their mold.
And they said good-bye together, in another line so long, 
With her hand upon his shoulder, as she sadly smiled strong.

Wake up hon, its time to rise, today’s a special day,
Mom needs help to look our best, now you know all that I could say.
Let’s get washed and brush your hair, you’ll shine among the crowd,
You’ve grown so well and look so fine, your father would be proud.
No explanations needed, it all worked out as planned,
You did all that we could ask, and now you understand. 
Now go down the stairs, the car awaits, Mom needs a moment’s time,
Thank you God, your faith in us has stood the test of time


The sun climbs over bleacher steps, the field fully in its view,
The ceremony soon to start, the seats arranged like pews.
Uncles enter laughing, as they banter while they climb,
The moment they’ve awaited, faces cleansed for all of time.
They encircle Holy Mother, as they continue to the skies,
Her happiness unbridled, no tears are in her eyes. 
And the Driver softly watches, hidden from their view,
With the biggest smile of all, if he could be there too.

The sun warms the field the morning of this day,
Music plays and people laugh, she has so much to say. 
Graduation- already past, Future- already in her hand,
Her heritage insightful, prepared to make her stand.
All along, her path she’s known, a writer she will be,
In part because she writes so well, but more because she sees:
Your image dim, my memory thin, your voice I strain to hear,
And even though I can’t recall, I’m like you Father dear.
With eyes that know, she returns back now, from oldest memories from before,
The day she stood and watched and witnessed, as the world stood still once more.



			         Richard L. Piccolo
			         January 1, 2002
			         rpiccolo@livevault.com
			         (508) 460-6670 x103