My 3 and 4 year old daughters were sitting on the floor with me Sunday morning while I braided their hair. We were talking about the upcoming BBQ and the day at the baseball field for Dave’s last playoff game.
I started explaining Sept 11, 2001 to them and couldn’t make it through the description without breaking down into tears. Were my wounds still so tender after 10 years? Could it be that all of us who were around then, who witnessed what we did through TV and the internet would always be affected by the events that transpired?
I think so.
I know my heart sinks every time I see a photo of the towers on fire.
I know my heart is saddened and filled with pride when I think about those people who fought the hijackers and died in that Pennsylvania field.
Nothing will ever erase those memories and sights from my minds-eye; honestly, I don’t ever want to forget.
(Photo from Freephoto.com)
We have men and women who went and signed up the next day to fight a fight that those people in the towers couldn’t. There are families who have lost the innocence that 9/11 took away from us all and a family member fighting in this war.
We lost a piece of ourselves when the those towers fell, many of us falling to our knees as if pleading for the right words to make it “right” again.
I remember standing in church the next day full of anger and helplessness, feeling that holding hands with the people near me wasn’t doing enough for those that were missing, possibly forever.
I still feel that anger, I still feel the grief when I look at my daughters and know one day they will be sitting in school reading a story about the twin towers/Flight 93 and the atrocities that existed during that hour and a half of hell. I want them to hear about it from my lips; I want them to know that these aren’t just words or a show they are watching. It was real to all of us who still remember where we were when it all became reality.
Bless those that fell and those that were left behind.