For the past eight years, I’ve spent September 11 alone, doing almost nothing, listening for the voice of ghosts.
In 2001, 53 people from my former hometown died in the towers that day. The planes that killed them flew over our heads after they left Boston.
I knew people in the towers who made it, and a few who did not. Several friends should have been there, but luck took them elsewhere. A friend almost suffocated in the rubble of the second tower, risking his life to photograph the event. Two of our children were close enough to see the carnage but, thankfully, not in it.
Three years ago, my dad died on that day, making it even more significant as my annual day of rest, grief and restoration.
Don’t expect any great words on the subject. I have none. But, I have no hatred, either. Just sadness and the hope that our grandchildren’s futures are not held hostage to the memory of that date or the threat of another attack.
When people misunderstand my politics and accuse me of not caring for this country, I tell them I gave at the office. There are those who attack with planes, and others who attack with words. Who is to say which does the greater evil?
I love this country, and I want it back!