I can't help it. I cry ever September11th. Sometimes I wonder if I always will.
I didn't know anyone who died that day. I had no connection to New York. I had no relation to anyone in any Fire or Police Department. And still it hit too close to home. I suppose, because The United States of America is my home and because I was young and pregnant with my first child and I was glued to that tv screen with so many others. I watched the live coverage as the second plane hit and everything I thought was safe about America fell with those buildings.
Someone said, we all collectively grieved. We did. And, that, too, was new and strange and life-altering. We all felt fear. We all wanted hope. We all sought and gave comfort, state to state, across the country, and for the first time in my life, I felt a surge of pride and I understood patriotism. For a while, a hateful act created an intimacy spanning would be chasms. In the face of hostility, we united.
And people couldn't stop talking about it. I don't think they wanted to stop talking about it. Because the talking helped. And it connected us all in an astonishing way.
And so I want to remember. I want to tell my kids about that day I wish hadn't happened. Even though, they won't ever really 'get it', it's important. And honestly, I sort of hope I always cry.