by Cris Italia
I keep telling myself that closure is near, and one day all these feelings will be locked away. Last Sunday, though, closure was far from my mind as Mike's name was hoisted below the 79th Street sign in Glendale. He is the first civilian to receive the honor among the men and women who lost their lives on Sept. 11. City Councilman Dennis Gallagher worked quickly to make Mike's name one of the first. Mike's parents, Rose and Roger Marti, chose his birthday as the day 79th Street would forever bear their son's name.
It was a cold, wet, windy day, but I kept thinking that the sky would somehow open up and sunlight would trickle through. The ceremony began with the councilman introducing Mike's cousin and godfather, Mario Truglio, and just as Truglio said, "Michael is now an angel watching over us," the sun peeked out and the rain amazingly came to a sudden halt.
From that point on the sun forced its way through the clouds, but as soon as the last words were spoken it went back into hiding and rain started falling again.
Just like everything Mike had done in his life, the ceremony at which we remembered him was special. And although I've never had strong religious beliefs, I had to believe he was watching over us on Sunday. The whole episode was eerie -- it felt like he was there with us. Smiling down on us, saying thank you. Some 200 family, friends, and neighbors came out to celebrate him on Sunday, most because Michael touched them in some way.
The year and a half since the terrorist attacks has been a series of hills and valleys for me, but as I've said before, the visions I've experienced -- from my time at the World Trade Center just minutes after the attack and as part of the ground zero rescue effort -- seem to remain forever fresh in my mind. The horrid memories are never far away and, most of all, Michael is never far either. If anything, his death has been an inspiration, a reason to go on whenever I think my day is going badly. All I need to do is look up at his picture hanging above my desk and I have all I need to get by.
Roger and Rose say that with each day, the pain of their son's death sinks in more and more. That no matter what they do, nothing will ever get them back to where they used to be. "The house is empty," Mrs. Marti said.
I have to believe it. You don't have to look far to see the impact of Mike's loss. Everyone is different. His relatives, his friends, and even the neighborhood. There always seems to be a void, and no matter how much we try and fall back into the routine of life, it's missing one of its most precious gifts.
Since Sept. 11, friendships have grown apart. Those wild and crazy nights we knew all too well with Michael never seem to happen anymore. One friend said, "It hurts too much to have fun. It just doesn't seem right to do it without him." There was talk of a golf tournament in his name, just something to keep everyone together. It's amazing how we all have to work so hard to do something he could do with one phone call. He meant everything to us. He was what kept everyone together.
The renaming of his street is just a small tribute. People knew 79th Street because of Michael Marti. He was the identity. The kid with the red Camaro, the guy with the great smile. Now the street is officially his. Happy birthday, Mike. We miss you.
