New York, New York

On this anniversary of most tragic days, I feel compelled to write something if even only for my personal benefit. I remember as a kid hearing my parents talk about the day that JFK was assassinated. I wondered at the clarity of their memories. They could recall where they were; what they were doing; and my mom even what she was wearing. I thought it cool (if that’s possible) that an event could trigger such strong remembrance in someone.

Horrible things happen every day. People die in horrendous ways and under indescribable circumstances. But somehow there is insulation in not knowing the details of each occurrence. That security blanket of ignorance was ripped from me on the morning of September 11, 2001. I recall driving to work (as I normally did) listening to the morning show on my favorite local radio station. They were talking about a plane crash into a building in New York City. At first, I disregarded their comments as they were prone to creating skits for shock and awe. Then my cell phone rang; it was my wife.

The day was spent watching television. Like a fresh addict, my appetite for more was insatiable; channel to channel looking for another picture, eye witness account, or explanation. Denial swept in. This couldn’t actually be happening; in America! 3,000 people died and another 6,000 were injured. I feel for those who died. My prayers go out to the families who lost loved ones. I can’t begin to imagine what that is like. I guess now it’s my turn to share those memories with my own kids.