I suppose that my take on 9/11 isn’t unique or different. I saw it on my T.V. screen just like millions of other people. I wondered what it all meant. To me, it was global, huge, scary.
But to so many, it meant Daddy wasn’t coming home, or their brother was gone, or their husband was dead. To the families of Flight 93, calling them heroes wasn’t going to bring them back to raise their children, kiss their grandkids, or hug their parents.
Perhaps, because a year later, at the end of August of 2002, I lost my father, I began to view it personally, intimately.
So, this post is to those who survived, who are left to ponder seven years later, “When will I stop grieving?”