September 11

Today is a day that a good portion of our nation mourns. We tend to remember the events of 8 years ago and talk about where we were when the Towers Fell, when the plane hit or when that flight crashed in the field. I cry. Every 9/11 I cry. I remember all of that vividly as if it were yesterday.

But I think we do the men, women, children, husbands, fathers, wives, mothers, sisters, brothers, heros, victims, innocents and sinners a real disservice to only remember the hate. The only remember the horror. Don't get me wrong. I'm still saying silent prayers for all those might have beens, should have dones and never weres.

Instead though, to honor them, I'm going to talk about something good. Something positive. I'm not going to lie, this is tough. It would be easier to talk about sadness and grief.

But here it goes.

Wednesday night when I pulled into the driveway Lulu saw the neighbor boy outside. She shrieked, "ABRAHAM" and possibly was jumping out of her carseat before I had put the car in park. He saw her and shouted, "LIZZIE". Apparently, unbeknownst to either of them, they are neighbors and are also in the same class at school.

She and he, along with his 4 siblings(?) (1 brother, 3 sisters) played together. We got Popsicles for everyone (that they didn't eat), they swung on our porch swing, looked at the Chihuahua puppies in their garage and jumped on the trampoline in their backyard. They laughed and played and wore at least my little girl plain out.

Here was/is the cool thing. Abraham and his dad are the only ones who speak English in their house. And it's their second language. But Lulu had no problem playing for almost 2 hours with everyone, even those that didn't speak English (and didn't understand her gibberish that she thinks is Spanish). She offered everyone a Popsicle, even though she didn't know them, and at the end of the night talked incessantly about all of her friends. Not just Abraham, but his brother and sisters and what a good time they all had and how much fun they all had.

She told me that his little sister thinks her (Lulu's) name is Nina. "Isn't that funny Mommy?" she asked. I asked what the sister's name was. She told me Girl. The irony didn't miss me.

I love that she has these friends. That she (and they) don't care that they don't speak the same language. Because even though their words aren't the same, children all speak the same language.

It's the language of Popsicles on a September night, the thrill of the porch swing, the laughter from the trampoline and the warm, wet kisses of the smallest puppies you've ever seen.

Who needs common words when the spirit and language is all the same?