On this day, at almost exactly this very moment thirteen years ago, our world changed forever.

The following is a commemorative post I wrote on September 11, 2011. I’d like to re-share it with you today:

Like most adults, I woke today filled with memories of that other morning, ten years ago, almost to the moment.

It had been a period of loss for our family. First my mother, unexpectedly at the age of 69 in early 2000. Next a dear aunt, then another — sisters of my mother. Then, on September 3, 2001, my husband Alex lost a beloved aunt, followed the very next day, September 4, by his father, Donald Carrick.

We returned to work on the morning of Monday, September 11 after a week of funerals. Already saddened, but relieved, at least, to put the heaviest of our grief behind us and get back to our normal routines.

It was just past 9 am. My office phone rang. It was one of my staff, a young lady, calling to say she would be a little late. “But Donna,” she added, “there’s something wrong in New York City. I don’t know what, but something’s happened at The Towers.”

I won’t pretend her first words chilled me. I had no idea, after all, what they meant. But her next sentences gave me pause. “It’s really scary,” she said. “Everything here is too quiet. There are no planes in the air — none.”

I put the phone down. I work for a major media organization, and at that time we were still connected with Canwest at the 1450 Don Mills Road building. I ran from my office on the 2nd floor up a half flight toward the big news screen on the 3rd floor.

Within moments, almost 200 of my friends and co-workers had joined me. In absolute silence we watched the newsman as he struggled to make sense of the first impact. He, and we, thought it must have been an accident. He spoke in reverence, pausing to find the right words. Clearly it was not a typical news report. He was just a guy with a microphone and a camera, trying to tell the world what had happened.

And then, before our eyes, in one flash of horror, the unthinkable occurred. The second plane. As he spoke, facing the camera, behind his head we saw it pass, turn, and collide with the second tower.

And we all knew.

There was no cry of horror in our building. No stifled collective gasp — no outrage spoken in words.

There was only a deep, unbroken silence as the knowledge flooded us.

During the days that followed our hearts broke time and again, with each new discovery, each fresh image that was presented to us. We were filled with an unprecedented grief, and a love for our brothers and sisters in New York City.

The phrase “Ground Zero” came into our language. But we know the damage of that day was not isolated to the towers. Not at all. Its impact ripples to this day through the hearts and minds of people everywhere. None are left untouched.

So here we are in Canada on a beautiful Toronto morning. What has changed in our world?

Ten years have come…and gone. A heightened sense of security worldwide has restricted our freedoms in ways we might never have imagined. We’ve suffered suspicion… against our neighbours, from our neighbours. Friendships have grown, or have been set aside. Babies have been born, and loved ones have died.

But that moment, standing with hundreds of my co-workers, friends all, entrenched in the silent horror of first awareness, before even the newsman knew for sure…..

…that was a pivotal moment.

A moment that cannot be erased, nor can it be trivialized, nor should it ever be.

All that has come to pass since that day has been acted on an altered stage.

And now, ten years later, we still seek peace. Too elusive. Too vague a concept. Our global psyche too cluttered with offenses given and received, too filled with suspicion and hatred. Forgive us our trespasses, as we will forgive those who trepass….

Instead of a day committed to reliving that horror, as if anyone could or would ever forget, I pray we will dedicate this day to seeking peaceful solutions to our differences.

That’s my fervent wish on this day, ten years to the moment later.

Donna Carrick
September 11, 2011

Carrick Publishing is pleased to announce the Author and Title list for our Fall, 2014 Crime anthology, World Enough And Crime:

Yours truly will be one of the featured authors, with my new story Dr. Shediac, featuring Detective Mallory Tosh.

What an honour to be included with such talented authors! Can’t wait for the release.

Watch for it, folks!

Some exciting news to share with you all today:

The Short-List nominees for the prestigious Arthur Ellis Awards (Crime Writers of Canada) were announced last night.

I was thrilled and honoured to learn that my story Watermelon Weekend from our crime anthology THIRTEEN was short-listed in the Best Short Story category, along with fellow THIRTEEN contributor Sylvia Maultash Warsh for her story The Emerald Skull. (Carrick Publishing, 2013)

Congratulations to nominees in all categories, especially to yet another fellow-contributor, Melodie Campbell, whose book The Goddaughter’s Revenge (Orca Books) was short-listed for Best Novella!

It was indeed a great night for the Mesdames of Mayhem, and for Carrick Publishing as well!

“US”.

Small, barely 5 inches across, and virtually invisible on the corner of my bedroom wall, next to the closet. The only way to hide it more effectively while still hanging it would be to display it IN the closet.

Created nearly 50 years ago by pouring plaster of Paris into a hand-carved impression in the sand.

Is it art?

Only of the most rudimentary, childish kind.

Is it valuable?

Not to anyone but me.

What, then, is the truth about “US”? Why is this talisman, of no intrinsic value and known to no one other than myself, given space on my wall? Why have I treasured it these nearly 50 years, and why, when I am gone, will others find it, sigh, and carelessly toss it into the discard bin?

This, my friends and gentle readers, is a mystery I have chosen to share with you.

More than a talisman, or a “writer’s prompt”, this strange plaque, still decorated with the sand of Fundy Bay and its original paint, is a vessel of memories, a “soul-jar” if you will.

I was four, and my sister, Debbie, would have been six. We spent those summers on Parlee Beach, leaping over seaweed in the salt water and playing endlessly on the shimmering sand.

An arts-and-crafts instructor gathered all the children together, and showed us how to dig a ‘pocket’ into the firm, damp sand, then draw a picture into it. Once the image was cast, we would pour the plaster from her large bucket, letting it sit until it hardened. Then we would paint the images.

I made a leaf, complete with ladybug, proudly painting it green and red and black, but was heartbroken when it slipped from my hands and broke.

To console me, Sis gave me hers, saying, “See, Donna, it’s US.”

Years later, going through my childhood possessions in my parents’ house, I found ‘US’. Debbie was already gone by then. But I remembered the day, as clearly as one can remember a summer day from long ago.

And ever since, it has held a place on my wall.

When I am gone, one of my children will no doubt hold it up, shake his head, and say, “What the hell is this?”

It won’t matter any more, at that point. They can throw it out.

But so long as I live, this promise stands: not a day will go by that I don’t look at it at least once, briefly, and remember…