Today we celebrate the sixth anniversary of the terrible terrorist attacks on our country. I remember that day, how it started out like an ordinary Tuesday, with me scurrying around to get my oldest three kids ready for school, and cleaning up the kitchen while the younger three watched Sesame Street. Then my husband called me from work, telling me that something was going on and I should turn on the news.
I remember how quickly we went from innocence to horror. I was pregnant with my seventh child, and I stood watching the buildings in flames, rubbing my swollen belly, wondering what this meant for the world this child would soon enter.
A few days later, as I drove into town to do some shopping, I turned down a road I don’t usually drive on. It was a lovely, tree-lined residential street, and every house, on both sides of the road, had an American flag proudly displayed on its lawn. My eyes blurred and the thick, confused, sad feeling that had been my companion for days disappeared as I drove slowly past them all. We had not lost hope.
The question I asked that frightening Tuesday – what does this mean for the world my children will live in? – has still not been answered. During the past six years, we have seen a lot of terrible and confusing things. But I have seen a lot of wonderful things, too, acts of kindness, and intelligence, and bravery. I am not happy with a lot of what is happening, but I still have hope. It is that hope that will get me out to vote today, because today, Patriot’s Day, is also the primary election day in my town’s local elections. Exercising my right to vote is a small but fitting way to honor those who have worked, and fought, and even died to make sure I keep that right. Six years later, we still have a voice.
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I had just delivered a stillborn little girl the day before. I was trying to cope with that loss and still in a little bit of schock the next day when my brother called to tell us to turn on the tv. The overwhelming feelings became greater as the day progressed and I learned that we had lost a family friend in the Pentagon. I buried my grief deep as I mourned with the country and dealt with my fear and the fear of my children in the days that followed. My grief didn't show itself until Valentines Day of the following year, which I find a tad ironic. Now every year I have to watch documentaries of 9/11 on each anniversary. For some reason I find it healing and it lets a little more grief out.
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