On the infamous morning eight years ago today, I was slowly waking up looking forward to another beautiful fall day with my newborn son. He was 3 weeks old, already had big, beautiful, strikingly blue eyes ready to melt me upon entering his room. The house was quiet although I could hear birds outside and life was content.
Life in Suburb, Midwest, was carrying on. Then my husband called and said to turn on the tv. Didn’t matter what channel, just turn it on. It took me several minutes to register what I was actually watching.
Among thoughts of rage and not understanding who could possibly be angry enough to kill so many so violently, my early thoughts went immediately to children and babies who had moms and dads in those planes and buildings. There I sat with my newborn tightly in my arms, tears streaming down my face wishing time could go in reverse.
My bundle of innocence and beauty wasn’t old enough to remember what happened that day. He wasn’t old enough to understand what life was like before the threat of terrorism was everywhere, what it meant by having our country under orange alert and not knowing if we should fear it, and not having Bin Laden become the ultimate game of hide and seek.
On this day eight years after the devastating change our country experienced, I remember those who gave their lives to helping save victims. I remember those who tried to escape and couldn’t. I remember those who did escape and now have nightmares. I remember children who lost a parent. I reflect on what it means to be proud of my country.