On the way home, it was strange to look up and see nothing but stars. No moving lights, not a single plane in the sky. We got home and put the kids to bed. Of course, Tim and I sat in front of the television for the rest of the evening. We were stunned to see the brilliant fire lighting up the NY skyline. There wasn’t a lot of new information. Osama Bin Laden and his Al Qaeda terrorist group (based in Afghanistan) were the main suspects. It was too early to say for certain that he was responsible. Earlier in the day, there were reports of gun fire in Afghanistan, but the US denied having anything to do with it. It was too soon to declare war on them. Mostly, the images on TV were those I had seen all day. The plane slamming into the building, the buildings collapsing, people running for their lives, the Pentagon on fire, NYC covered in snow-like ash. It was surreal.

I felt such sorrow and heartbreak. I also had the unsettling feeling of waiting for the other shoe to drop. I knew it wasn’t over. As terrible as that day was, each day after was worse. The personal stories were coming out. The widows, the widowers, the orphaned children. About 400 firefighters were missing. Every reporter on the street was surrounded by people holding up pictures of their missing loved ones. There were answering machine messages left by people trapped in the WTC or passengers on the hijacked flights. I told Tim that if he had been in that situation, I wouldn’t have wanted him to call me. I wouldn’t want those final words to play over and over again in my head for the rest of my life. But, that’s just me. Maybe people were comforted by hearing goodbyes from the people they loved. There was news that some of the passengers on Flight 93 (the one that crashed in Pennsylvania) knew they were supposed to become a weapon. They attacked the terrorists before the plane could reach its target. The pilot had already been killed, so these people knew that the plane would crash and they were going to die. The sadness was crushing. I wondered if I would ever stop crying. The president declared September 14th a National Day of Prayer. That day was also my 27th birthday. I watched the prayer service at the National Cathedral in Washington, D.C., overwhelmed with a mixture of grief and love for our country. Tim and I got a sitter that night so we could go out for my birthday, but we certainly didn’t feel like celebrating. I don’t even remember what we did.

There were hero stories that made me cry, too. Like the two men that carried a woman in her wheelchair down 86 floors of the World Trade Center. Two women that ran a daycare close to the WTC raced across town to safety on foot carrying 10 young children. Lines were 3 to 6 hours long for people donating blood. Everyone felt so patriotic. God and prayer were mentioned on national television by people who would usually do their best to avoid the subjects. I remember looking out of the car window four days after the attack and thinking how beautiful the scenery was and how blessed my family was to live in this country.

I could write so much more. But, I don’t think I could say anything that isn’t written in the memorabilia I’ve saved. Previous generations remember just what they were doing when Pearl Harbor was bombed, JFK was assassinated, or the space shuttle Challenger blew up. I know I’ll never forget 9/11. I hope no one does.