There are posters—posters everywhere of people who never came home that day. The Fulton Street station, where I would normally get off, is closed indefinitely, and now, I have to get off a stop early at City Hall. Before it happened, I often intentionally got off the subway at City Hall to enjoy the longer walk. I would walk down Park Row and stop in at J&R Music to peruse the jazz CDs, or I would head over to the East River and walk down South Street to be near the water. Now this extra walk is torture. The posters—the posters break my heart. With each poster, I feel the longing of the loved ones—the ones who are left behind—the ones who refuse to believe that their husbands/wives/sons/daughters/friends/aunts/uncles/cousins are already dead. No matter how happy I am when I get off the subway, the walk never fails to devastate me. My heart drops into the base of my pelvis, my lungs become water-logged with sorrow, and I fight for air between my au...