The 9/11 Memorial was a place where hushed silence reigned. I walked into the hushed place, schoolbag dangling off my shoulder. I was fourteen years old and on a school trip to New Jersey. We were supposed to visit the Cheese and Bread Emporium, but I sneaked off to the Memorial.
I gazed up at it, an enormous cracked tower with a teardrop dangling in the middle. At the foot were the names of people who had perished, love notes, there was even a heart locket. I fumbled. I had paper and pencil, but I couldn't stand there, having come all this way just to leave his name there. My uncle, Jeremy Robertson, or Germie, as I used to call him.
A cigarette lay in ashes beside me. Ashes?
I quickly rummaged through my schoolbag. I took out a sea blue coloured paper from my Arts folder and sat down, folding away. At last, I was done. I laid down the phoenix gently beside other memorabilia.
Phoenixes rise from ashes.
I hope uncles do.