Today...

is September 11, 2006.

The five year anniversary of a truly horrible day.

I have a lot of questions about September 11th; that might make you think I'm not patriotic-hardly! I am very patriotic, I just have questions, and not too many answers. See, I knew 2 people who died on that unlucky Tuesday morning; one was in WTC One, and the other was on Flight 93. Karen, I knew from High School. Jeremy, I knew peripherally, his older brother Jonah, was the sweet natured fraternity brother of my boyfriend in College. I know that their families will never get the answers they might have if they have them. It's wrong to assume that after all this time there might still be things unsaid, but one can never know for sure.

One local NYC reporter I watched last night said it was 30 full minutes before she was told that a colleague had been located, yet when she sat down and reviewed the tape only 7 minutes had passed, which tells me that time stood still for many of us. I know for my generation, we all remember specifics about that day.

I remember closing the preschool and leaving work as quickly as I could.
I remember picking up a stranded woman with her two little boys-her car had broken down on 17 and she was crying when I stopped. Her sons and I sang songs as I drove them to their townhouse across the street from C.M. Bradley.
I remember picking my children up from school and taking them home-a place where I felt safe.
I remember calling my friend George, in NYC, to make sure he was okay-he was, but as a Reservist, he had been called in immediately and had seen horrific things, so define "okay."

I didn't hear from my husband for 36 hours.

When I did all I wanted was for Tony to come home. He couldn't.

I remembered the day Preston was born, October 5, 1993, Savannah Georgia. It was an amazing fall day; crisp, clear, full of promise and totally ordinary. A day very much like September 11th. Except for one thing. As I labored that day, we watched on close circuit television the funeral of a soldier that Tony knew. He had died in Somalia.

That's all Tony could "tell me", that, and his wife was 23.

Somalia. A terrible place then, a terrible place still. Tony was meant to be there too, but I went into labor, and he stayed to watch the birth of his first child... Preston Arthur Harrison. Looking back, I can recall everything about that funeral, and Preston's delivery. It was positively surreal.

I had questions about being an Army Wife, before I became one, and I got some answers really fast after I did. I guess, though, there are some questions we can't answer.

New York. A terrible loss then, a terrible loss still.
We can't forget even though it hurts to remember.
We can't behave like a society without civility.
We can't tell children that the world is without pain.
But, we can hope, for happiness and for peace.

May G-d bless each of you and all of the people and places you hold dear, today and always.