What can I tell you? I gave big hugs today to another old friend of mine who lost her husband in the WTC last year. What else an you do?

I worry about her, in their apartment where they spent their entire post-college lives living together. Almost 15 years. I wonder if she eats dinner there, if she turns on the TV, if she sleeps at night or if she stares at closets filled with his clothing?

There's nothing you can do to speed up someone's grieving process - a depressing realization I learned last year. There's nothing you can do to make it better. But the worst, the very worst part of it all, is knowing how public it has been for these people. How they had no moments alone, or that they witnessed the death of their loved one. Everybody saw those people die. Everybody saw fire and crashing. There is no privacy in their grieving.

And everyday, in the media or in art or on the streets of New York, those people face the demon of that death. Through photographs of that day or artful tributes to the Towers or media reports, they relive it. Constant reminders: here's where Joe Blow may have leapt to his death. Here's where Joe may have incinerated. Here's where Joe was crushed and buried.

It doesn't seem right to me and there's no solution other than exiting society, and even then...even then.

It's an incredibly unfair blow those survivors were dealt.

Things have been great for me. I'm really feeling good mentality; I feel optimistic about life. I'm looking forward to my plans over the next few weeks, even though it's a lot of travel.

I have a funeral for my uncle this week. I am looking forward to going home. It's been a long time since I've been home to the house where I grew up. 10 months.

It'll be nice to see my room just as I left it at 18, with high school photos taped to my mirror, yellowed with the tape peeling. My trophies and my varsity letters, my high school uniform and my yearbooks. My Elvis poster taped to the wall. Everything exactly as I left it 11 years ago.

It's good to go home.

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