9.11.2002

R.I.P., Fred and Este. Love never dies.

So. September 11, 2002. It's a year since Black Tuesday, the worst day in the history of the United States. What a strange year it has been, this tragedy coinciding with a blissful first year of married life. Still, I think about Fred Rimmele nearly every day, and I mourn him without any sense of being able to ever stop.


Fred was a really unique person; he wanted to be a doctor for as long as I knew him, and went to Duke and was a good doctor, from everything I've read about his grown-up life since his untimely and unbelievable death on Flight 175. I hate it that we all "saw" him die; I hate it that there are evil people in the world who continue to draw breath while he doesn't, and I hate it that I know life is unfair and that the blackness of grief in my heart is fruitless and wasteful and possibly breeds its own evil.


I'm trying not to drown in my fury at the senselessness of the universe, and of that day, but it's a struggle. There's no denying, though, that it puts a lot of little bullshit things that we complain about firmly in perspective, and that the sudden inexplicable death of 3,025 innocent people makes you realize how important it is to tell people you love them, when you love them, and that they're important to you, and to let go of the little trivialities in life. I feel strongly about this not least because I fly all the time, and I'm scared all the time on account of that frequent flight.


You don't think about dying until people important to you die too young. I knew this when Este Oyenque died on February 27, 1997, and I know it even more now, because there's no Fred in the world to write funny uplifting e-mails, and tape cartoons to the envelopes of real mail that made me laugh, and to put things in perspective, which he did better than anyone I ever knew. I sure hope there's a Heaven, because there's something sinful in Fred and Este only living on in memory, and not somewhere painless and perfect.


That's all I have to say.



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