The barber has passed on now,
But he is not forgotten
For he held sacred space for me
Seventeen years ago.
I am journeying back in time
To a haircut
And the sound of scissors
Metal edge against metal edge.
There’s an unusual chill
Even when covered by the plastic blanket
And the large man, smelling of after-shave,
Works behind me with a special form of magic.
And then I hear sounds of crying
From a clenched-jawed news anchor
Shedding tears in between updates
From reporters on Fifth Avenue.
A live feed of burning skyscrapers
Makes me feel flushed and paralyzed
As I watch and wonder how many are trapped
And how many have died?
Where were you seventeen years ago today?
In memory of all who lost their lives on September 11, 2001
This is my journey,
— Nate Long “Owl”
Pen and ink with digital manipulation