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which set on two acres of land, was our post-war home. We’d meet there or at my home. That was the plan. Either way, it never dawned on any of us, that perhaps one or more would not make it. Death became a realistic thought in the aftermath.
    The notebook would forever be dedicated to my list and my list only. My children and blood family were excluded, because a part of me felt it not ‘right’ to add them. Aside from myself, there were eight people. Eight people who comprised the ‘I’ll be there’ group. Those individuals were my primary focus.
    The intention of the notebook was simple. The first page would be my ‘track’ sheet. On that I would place their names and their discovered fate as well. On the sequential pages I would remember them as vividly as I could. Details of their lives, our relationship. I suppose it was my way of assuring, that if God forbid they were taken from us, they would never be forgotten. Giving immeasurable value to a cheap dollar notebook in the form of a memorial of immortality etched on its pages.

    Allow me to explain why I chose to keep my family from gracing my notebook. Two words best described the objective of my list—life and death. Were my friends alive or had they been killed? It was something my mind didn’t wonder about when it came to my immediate family. Of them ... I knew.
    Simon and Davy were well and fine. There was no reason to include Matty. I was certain, without a shadow of a doubt, that my daughter was alive. My heart screamed of her survival and ached with impatience to bring her home. That would be done soon enough. My mother’s inclusion would be preposterous since she left this earth to be with my father some years before, and that left my brother and his wife—Simon’s parents. Having known of their pre-bomb whereabouts, I was sadly confident of their destiny. They were starting their future, signing mortgage papers, twelve miles away, right smack center of ... ground zero.
    I could pray all I wanted for my brother’s return, but a part of me knew. I just knew.

    What started out as a simple list, a list of names and memories, grew into more. Never would I have imagined that notebook would ultimately turn into a diary of destiny. A solace I would seek and find when needed, adding entries as time moved on.

    How clean the opening page of the ‘I’ll be there’ notebook appeared. In my best printing, perpendicular to the blue margin line, I listed the names.
    Sam Collins
    Tammy Smithton
    Mona Youlak
    Rod Singer
    Donald Burke
    Hebba Burke
    Craig Roman
    Nicky Wocheskowski

    They weren’t placed in any particular order of importance; I just jotted the names down as I thought of them. I even gave that exact disclaimer at the bottom of the first page—I guess more so for generations to come. I didn’t want them to think I liked one more than the other, because if I did place the names in a likeability order, surely Hebba would have been at the very bottom.
    Who were these people?
    When I first met Sam Collins, I teased him often about his name sounding like some exotic drink. He was young and immature; I was a few years older and thought I was mature. Davy was four at the time Sam first started coming around, and I was pregnant with Matty. It’s hard to pin point how long Sam and I were together, since we frequently separated. Never for long. The words ‘good guy’ and ‘Sam’ were often found in the same sentence. Everyone liked Sam. A little slow at times, but truly a ‘heart’ thinker. I put in the notebook that I was positive Sam was alive, because just like our history, we were never apart for long. I was certain the bombs caused no exception to that rule.
    There wasn’t much to say about Tammy. In an essence she should have been included on the family side of the issue. We knew each other since childhood. A mother herself, Tammy projected a tough exterior, never had an easy life, and was one of those people I believed prayed for the end of