I don't even want to think about it. It's still too raw. I can't bear to see those airplanes on my television again. I can hardly stand to think of how we felt that day, calling around and checking on loved ones out of state, spending most of the workday watching the news reports, not knowing for hours whether there were any planes still unaccounted for. I don't think it's an exaggeration to say that anyone who lived through those days was traumatized by it.
About six years ago, when Bess was in elementary school, I went along on a field trip her class took to a museum that was hosting one of those traveling 9/11 exhibits. The glass cases held firefighters' scorched hats, chunks of melted metal, shoes without mates, yellowed newspapers. Monitors in a darkened room showed videos of live news reports from the event. I tood one look around and burst into tears. I could not stop crying -- and if you know me, you know this is unusual for me. That's how hard it hit me. The schoolchildren didn't remember 9/11 and couldn't understand my reaction. But for the adults it was all still very visceral and immediate, even four years on. Adding to the poignancy, Peter Jennings was the news anchor on many of the videos, and he had just died from cancer. I kept thinking about him doing those reports not knowing he'd be dead himself four years later. Did the strain affect his health? Possibly. And he wasn't the only victim of collateral damage. The losses continue.
I'll put out a flag to honor the dead and this flawed, beautiful country, but I refuse to call it Patriot Day. The word "patriot" has accumulated too much baggage. It's 9/11. We will always remember it that way.
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