Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close

Do you think any of those things I dug up in Central Park were actually from the Sixth Borough?”
    He shrugged his shoulders, which I loved.
    “Dad?” “Yeah, buddy?” “Nothing.”

MY FEELINGS
    I was in the guest room when it happened. I was watching the television and knitting you a white scarf. The news was on. Time was passing like a hand waving from a train that I wanted to be on. You'd only just left for school, and I was already waiting for you. I hope you never think about anything as much as I think about you.
    I remember they were interviewing the father of a missing girl.
    I remember his eyebrows. I remember his sadly cleanly shaven face.
    Do you still believe that she will be found alive?
    I do.
    Sometimes I was looking at the television.
    Sometimes I was looking at my hands knitting your scarf.
    Sometimes out the window at your window.
    Are there any new leads in the case?
    Not to my knowledge.
    But you continue to believe.
    Yes.
    What would it take for you to give up?
    Why was it necessary to torture him?
    He touched his forehead and said, It would take a body.
    The woman asking the questions touched her ear.
    She said, I am sorry. One second.
    She said, Something has happened in New York.
    The father of the missing girl touched his chest and looked past the camera. At his wife? At someone he didn't know? At something he wanted to see?
    Maybe it sounds strange, but I didn't feel anything when they showed the burning building. I wasn't even surprised. I kept knitting for you, and I kept thinking about the father of the missing girl. He kept believing.
    Smoke kept pouring from a hole in the building.
    Black smoke.
    I remember the worst storm of my childhood. From my window I saw the books pulled from my father's shelves. They flew. A tree that was older than any person tipped away from our house. But it could have been the other way.
    When the second plane hit, the woman who was giving the news started to scream.
    A ball of fire rolled out of the building and up.
    One million pieces of paper filled the sky. They stayed there, like a ring around the building. Like the rings of Saturn. The rings of coffee staining my father's desk. The ring Thomas told me he didn't need. I told him he wasn't the only one who needed.
    The next morning my father had us carve our names into the stump of the tree that fell away from our house. We were giving thanks.
    Your mother called.
    Are you watching the news?
    Yes.
    Have you heard from Thomas?
    No.
    I haven't heard from him either. I'm worried.
    Why are you worried?
    I told you. I haven't heard from him.
    But he's at the store.
    He had a meeting in that building and I haven't heard from him.
    I turned my head and thought I would vomit.
    I dropped the phone, ran to the toilet, and vomited.
    I wouldn't ruin the rug. That's who I am.
    I called your mother back.
    She told me you were at home. She had just spoken to you.
    I told her I would go over and watch you.
    Don't let him see the news.
    OK.
    If he asks anything, just let him know that it will be OK.
    I told her, It will be OK.
    She said, The subways are a mess. I'm going to walk home. I should be there in an hour.
    She said, I love you.
    She had been married to your father for twelve years. I had known her for fifteen years. It was the first time she told me she loved me.
    That was when I knew that she knew.
    I ran across the street.
    The doorman said you'd gone up ten minutes before.
    He asked if I was all right.
    I nodded.
    What happened to your arm?
    I looked at my arm. It was bleeding through my shirt. Had I fallen and not noticed? Had I been scratching it? That was when I knew that I knew.
    No one answered the door when I rang, so I used my key.
    I called to you.
    Oskar!
    You were silent, but I knew you were there. I could feel you.
    Oskar!
    I looked in the coat closet. I looked behind the sofa. A Scrabble board was on the coffee table. Words were running into each other. I went to your room. It was empty. I looked in your closet. You weren't there. I went to your parents' room. I knew you were somewhere. I looked in your father's closet. I touched the tuxedo that was over his chair. I put my hands in its pockets. He had his father's hands. Your grandfather's hands. Will you have those hands? The pockets reminded me.
    I went back to your room and lay down on your bed.
    I couldn't see the stars on your ceiling because the lights were on.
    I thought about the walls of the house I grew up in. My