Each year, on this dark anniversary, we hear the stories of the heroes of 9/11. We read about the final words loved ones called to say. We hear about bravery, last kisses, love amidst the horror. It is good to remember, and it is good to hear stories that somehow give hope that all is not lost for humanity. And what I'm about to write is not meant to diminish those stories in any way.
For some reason, this year, I find myself thinking about the rest of the stories. I wonder about the people who were not brave. I wonder about the parents who fought with their teenagers before leaving the house in the morning. I wonder about the parents who were impatient with their toddlers, and then never saw them again. I wonder about the couples who didn't kiss each other good-bye, those who parted that morning amidst tension and hurt feelings. I wonder about the people who can't console themselves by thinking, "I said, 'I love you,' before I left." Some people had bad mornings on what turned into their worst day.
Today I am thinking of them.
