Today we will perpetually be prompted to remember by a nation that appears allergic to recalling its history.
It happened on one of my first days of college. It was the backdrop for my entryway into adulthood.
I remember a small man walking though the hall after class and yelling, “We’re under siege.”
I dropped out a few weeks later. I’d sort of lost my mind. Nothing made sense.
I returned a year later, but it remained everywhere and would continue to through graduation.
While vacationing in Montreal last week I heard demolition debris being sent down a shoot. The chunks were small, but it was so loud. I asked my wife, “Can you imagine what the Towers sounded like when they came down.” It forever lives in our subconscious.
Earlier this year we were at a book shop and I found a book that focused on the rescue dogs of 9/11 and I stood in the store, stared at each picture and cried.
So I’m not going to forget, thanks.
Remembering that day isn’t hard, but sorting through how we responded is another, more important story. Let’s not forget how sloppily we reacted in the years that proceeded the day we insist upon never forgetting.
IMAGE CREDIT: FEMA photographer Bri Rodriguez