I couldn’t let the day pass without a tribute to all the brave and innocent souls who lost their lives on September 11, 2001. Some were stolen, and some were freely given, out of sheer courage, in an effort to protect and rescue others. It’s hard to believe it’s been eleven years–the memories are still so fresh in my mind. The disbelief, the horror, the anger–all those feelings are still with me, and I guess they always will be.
It seems to me that September 11 is a lot like November 22–those of us who are old enough remember that awful day in 1963, when President John F. Kennedy was cut down in the prime of his life, can tell you exactly where we were and what we were doing when we got the news. I was in high school–I remember the flag at half mast, and the scrubby snow on the ground, and being sent home early. My mom was watching the news and crying.
On September 11, 2001, still living in Cave Creek, Arizona, I woke to a phone call from my friend, Peggy, who lives in the Eastern time zone. She wasn’t clear on the details yet, but she said a plane had hit the World Trade Center, and I pictured a little Cessna or something, some poor guy must have had a heart attack. When I turned on the news, there it was, the smoke and the destruction, like something out of one of those big budget disaster movies. Not one plane, but two–full-sized airliners. And then the Pentagon was hit, and Flight 93 went down in Pennsylvania, commandeered by brave passengers who knew they were going to die but were determined to stop one phase of the attacks.
Like most Americans, I was dazed, stricken, furious. How could such a thing happen?
I still don’t have the answers, and of course there’s no way to change the past. But we can–and we must–remember.
It’s the very least we can do.