Just a square on a quilt

Between shows last Friday, we thought we’d pop in to the American Folk Art Museum to listen to some live music and see their new digs. And sitting in the front hall, far enough from the screaming audience to listen the music while preserving our hearing, I gradually refocused on my surroundings and realized that the quilt on the wall across from us filled with names was a 9/11 memorial quilt.

The dead from the planes were on a panel on the left. I briefly panicked, unable to remember his name while I was looking for it, but found it quickly nonetheless. It’s been 10 years, and it’s not exactly a shock any longer, but remembering still produces a discomforting echo.

I touched the square, and took a few photos to perhaps send to his coworkers, because I still imagine that they continue to see themselves as his coworkers. There’s an odd parallel about losing track of all of them around the same time: they become as frozen in time as the dead. And knowing that I could run into some of them makes me think I could run into him.

I can’t.

And the music continued, and the audience screamed their appreciation again, and we continued talking, and I let my attention shift back to the now. And he stayed on his square, not reproachful, frozen on a square on a quilt.