Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close

was to fall asleep that night, but all I could do was invent.
    What about frozen planes, which could be safe from heat-seeking missiles?
    What about subway turnstiles that were also radiation detectors?
    What about incredibly long ambulances that connected every building to a hospital?
    What about parachutes in fanny packs?
    What about guns with sensors in the handles that could detect if you were angry, and if you were, they wouldn't fire, even if you were a police officer?
    What about Kevlar overalls?
    What about skyscrapers made with moving parts, so they could rearrange themselves when they had to, and even open holes in their middles for planes to fly through?
    What about...
    What about...
    What about...
    And then a thought came into my brain that wasn't like the other thoughts. It was closer to me, and louder. I didn't know where it came from, or what it meant, or if I loved it or hated it. It opened up like a fist, or a flower.
    What about digging up Dad's empty coffin?

WHY I'M NOT WHERE YOU ARE 9/11/03
    I don't speak, I'm sorry.
    My name is Thomas.
    I'm sorry.
    I'm still sorry.
    To my child: I wrote my last letter on the day you died, and I assumed I'd never write another word to you, I've been so wrong about so much that I've assumed, why am I surprised to feel the pen in my hand tonight? I'm writing as I wait to meet Oskar, in a little less than an hour, I'll close this book and find him under the streetlight, we'll be on our way to the cemetery, to you, your father and your son, this is how it happened. I gave a note to your mother's doorman almost two years ago. I watched from across the street as the limousine pulled up, she got out, she touched the door, she'd changed so much but I still knew her, her hands had changed but the way she touched was the same, she went into the building with a boy, I couldn't see if the doorman gave her my note, I couldn't see her reaction, the boy came out and went into the building across the street. I watched her that night as she stood with her palms against the window, I left another note with the doorman, “Do you want to see me again, or should I go away?” The next morning there was a note written on the window, “Don't go away,” which meant something, but it didn't mean “I want to see you again.” I gathered a handful of pebbles and tossed them at her window, nothing happened, I tossed some more, but she didn't come to the window, I wrote a note in my daybook—“Do you want to see me again?”—I ripped it out and gave it to the doorman, the next morning I went back, I didn't want to make her life any harder than it was, but I didn't want to give up either, there was a note on the window, “I don't want to want to see you again,” which meant something, but it didn't mean yes. I gathered pebbles from the street and threw them at her window, hoping she would hear me and know what I meant, I waited, she didn't come to the window, I wrote a note—“What should I do?”—and gave it to the doorman, he said, “I'll make sure she gets it,” I couldn't say, “Thank you.” The next morning I went back, there was a note on her window, the first note, “Don't go away,” I gathered pebbles, I threw them, they tapped like fingers against the glass, I wrote a note, “Yes or no?” for how long could it go on? The next day I found a market on Broadway and bought an apple, if she didn't want me I would leave, I didn't know where I would go, but I would turn around and walk away, there was no note on her window, so I threw the apple, anticipating the glass that would rain down on me, I wasn't afraid of the shards, the apple went through her window and into her apartment, the doorman was standing in front of the building, he said, “You're lucky that was open, pal,” but I knew I wasn't lucky, he handed me a key. I rode the elevator up, the door was open, the smell brought back to me what for forty years I had struggled not to remember but couldn't forget. I put the key in my pocket, “Only the guest room!” she called from our bedroom, the room in which we used to sleep and dream and make love. That was how we began our second life together ... When I got off the plane, after eleven hours of travel and forty years away, the man took my passport and asked me the purpose of my visit, I wrote in my daybook, “To mourn,” and then, “To mourn try to live,” he gave me a look and asked if I would consider that business or pleasure, I wrote,