Where do we begin?

It is, after all, fourteen years.

It is fourteen years since our world, our city, our hearts, were set alight by cruel intentions and lost innocence.

It is fourteen years since scarves were quietly unpinned, folded away like shed wings under arms and in handbags, so that the women who found solace in them could be rescued from the shadow of tragedy without being trampled, needlessly broken for who they were and who they were perceived to be.

It is fourteen years since we became strangers, again. Glad tidings to the strangers, we are told. Glad tidings to the ones who have gone from pointed looks to outright dismissal, erasure, hatred — set aside your faith, the world is tired of hearing about it, hearing about you and what the people who claim to be you have set out to do. Glad tidings to the strangers who are forced down in the offal of others’ sins.

It is fourteen years. When will this be over?

Where do we begin?

Every breath we have is measured out into our lungs, lovingly, by our Creator.

This is a faith based on love. This is a faith based on soft, silent meditation — on where we came from, on what binds all of us in our hearts and the smiles that touch our lips when we see one another.

This is a faith based on what brings us together, and does not separate us.

This is a faith based on savoring breath, lives lived — our lives, other lives, human life.

As a child, I used to hold my breath, and exhale, wanting to taste a remnant of the divine, wanting to have an assurance — a whisper, a touch on my shoulder — that when I next opened my mouth to speak, I would have the right words, the perfect words, the words to set everything right.

The words to stop our world, our city, our hearts, from being set alight. Demolished. Torn asunder.

I am not sure if I am wasting those sacred, meted out breaths today, this hour, this minute. I am torn, as I was torn fourteen years ago without the benefit of a medium in which to set my words without opening my sealed lips. I am torn, as I am torn every day between educating, between attempting to embrace the set, distant shoulders of the ignorant and the hateful — and moving on with a lowered head and a bruised soul.

It is fourteen years. When will this be over?

Where do we begin?

When do we stop measuring out our breaths in useless, unheard explanations, discussions, desire for dialogue when the narrative has already been snatched away and rewoven and tossed back at us, daring us to work out the evenly done stitches?

When do we stop feeling useless, hopeless, heartless for bringing up justifiable, undeniable truths about where we stand today, the lies we are trying to tear down, the air we are trying to breathe and the grief we cannot express because the world is burning, it is burning and there is nothing we can do but rub the soot from our eyes and hold our stinging heels?

It is, after all, fourteen years. Our skies are still cloudy, smudged with smoke. We still rock ourselves back and forth with grief and wonder what we should do, where we should go.

What else can I offer? What solace can I begin to bring — for others, for me?

Where do we begin?