to remember

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.