It is a day when the sky is bright blue, majestic and expands far beyond our grasp, into the universe where we are the smallest specks of dust inside a pocket of vastness. And still, so much on this planet, in this country revolves around this day.
I do remember clearly how it felt to see the chaos unfold. I can conjure up the swell of hopelessness and pride and fear and questioning just by thinking about the images of buildings falling into a silencing cloud of ash. I still feel the pain in my friends' voices as they honor people they loved who were lost that day, and I still cry when I read or see a story about a grieving family, a remaining mystery, and even the moments of hope that have risen up from all the dust and steel and bones.
All these years later, I know I want to do justice to all that happened that day. I want to explain it well, with heart and tears and compassion and clarity, to my son. I want to add my prayers to the collective. I want to look out on my own skyline with continued awe and gratitude. I want to hold on to what it felt like to be alive and an American that day, and I want to pass that along to my child's children so they can grasp why it was a turning point. I want to be sure to pause, to look back, even as we are walking forward.
Reflect with me: