SNAP SHOTS OF MIRACLES.(Brief Article)

People often remind me that, despite my most valiant efforts, I have not been able to lose my Brooklyn accent. There is no escaping the fact that I was born, bred, and educated in the Big Apple.

Many of my relatives still live there. I know firsthand that before September 11 most New Yorkers were not fond of those Twin Towers. It wasn't until they were gone and they realized what they had lost - - and how - - that they wanted them back.

That same sense of loss is common among aborted women. The lost child becomes more and more precious with the passage of time.

Grief is a constant companion on a life-long journey of bitterness and sorrow.

An ancient folk tale reminds me of the plight of these regret-filled women. It tells of two monks who came to a river swollen by rains.

Standing at the edge was a little old lady with a basket of goods. She was so tiny and bent over that the waters would have swirled over her head.

"Would you carry me across?" she plaintively asked. One monk refused, but the other agreed. Placing her on his shoulders, he carried the old woman through the rising waters.