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In remembrance of September 11th...

There are two billowy clouds drifting up from the space where the World Trade Center towers used to stand.

This morning, relatives are reading the names of those who perished on September 11, 2001.

I remember that bright, picturesque morning. It was a normal day. I had spent the night at my then fiance's apartment. He left for work early and I sat at the wobbly wooden kitchen table, eating a bowl of soggy cereal. His apartment, in Lower Manhattan, made it easy to hear the first stirrings of trouble. And, then the screams that something was wrong.

Out the window, people had gathered in the middle of Canal Street, snapping photos of the black cloud forming in the skyline.

But, I ignored it. No one wanted to think it was planned. Until I got to work that day, at a cheerful women's magazine on Park Avenue, I didn't understand what had really happened. The towers fell and we all hugged and cried. We rushed frantically to get loved ones on the phone.

My phone rang in my cublicle. My father. His voice, strong and empowered. He was calm, telling me to call my fiance, to make sure I had a place to go. He said, "You'll get through this." He died just 10 months later, a week after I was married to my fiance, living on the Upper Eastside of New York City, still at my job at the magazine.

I've never really written about that day. But, I've told many people that my father got me through it. My fiance walked across the Williamsburg Bridge to a warehouse space where his brother and some friends had gathered in impromptu vigil. Later, he walked all the way back, so he could sleep next to me at my railroad apartment in Chelsea.

I only knew one guy who died that day. He was a 'sort of' friend from high school. You know the type. A nice, well-dressed kid from a good family in my homeroom period whom I rarely spoke to. I knew he had moved to New York, but we never connected here. He died that day. He was probably 25-years-old.

I don't know what that day felt like for those who were directly affected by the attacks. But, I do know about grief. And, time. Loss.

Today I am thankful to be here. I am thankful for my family and friends. And, as I look out my window, across the river, from a perch here in Brooklyn, I remember them all.

The book - almost done!

I rarely write here anymore. And, I guess that's because I've been writing so much elsewhere.

Other than a story in the very last issue of Playgirl magazine, I'm also still freelancing for other publications.

And, I'm about to finish the book!!

I just returned from a self-imposed month-long writing retreat. I was sequestered in a cabin in the mountains of North Carolina. I wrote and revised nearly every day, give or take one or two afternoons of boating and swimming.

And, now I have a manuscript. It still needs a bit more work and I'll want my nearest and dearest to take first crack at it. But, I'm on schedule to start sending it out to agents and editors this autumn.

I showed up to the work. And, it did (almost always) show up for me.

Thanks for sticking by me.

Self's June issue

So, I'm not really posting much to this blog anymore. I write almost exclusively for the blog on www.EuroCheapo.com.

All posts are here:

http://www.eurocheapo.com/blog/index.php?author_name=Meredith%20Franco

But, I do have something in Self's June issue. Liv Tyler's on the cover (looking gorgeous), so please check it out.

Check out my most recent blog posts.

Hey all,

To see my most recent blog posts, please check in here:

www.eurocheapo.com/blog

I write under the name Meredith Franco.

Thanks for stopping by my blog.

A poem and an anniversary

Many of you know that I haven't written poetry for awhile. Well, one day when my students were penning their own stuff this summer, I used the free time to write this. It's going to be published as part of the University of Michigan's 40th anniversary of the Residential College (where I got my BA in creative writing).

Waiting Room
by Meredith Franco Meyers

In the pale waiting room of
St. Joseph's Mercy Hospital,
My mother reads old copies of
Ladies' Home Journal

At times, she looks up at the wall clock.

I sip a fifty-cent hot cocoa,
finagled from the vending machine
down the hall when someone--
an Alzheimer's patient,
a relative consumed by grief maybe?--
forgot their change.

The air reminds me of the public pool
where mom took us as kids
when the wall thermometer at home
turned red from the heat and
the weather man talked of humidity
in a voice made of bottled sunshine

Mom's coffee cup, stained lipstick red
on one side
Me, hands crossed in my lap
Hot cocoa all gone

My brother, in pale gown,
down the hall
a heartbeat away.

The work continues...

Since my last post, I graduated from New School's graduate writing program and finished my thesis. Three cheers.

I start a teaching job on June 25th at the Usdan Center on Long Island. It's a performing arts academy/camp. I'll be teaching four creative writing classes per day, to students ages 6-19. Yes, one of my students (if not more) is my brother's age.

In addition, check out SELF's June issue. I have a little piece in the front-of-book, page 37.

More to come...