9.11.2011

This morning I watched the coverage of the memorial for those who died tragically in the attacks on 9/11, exactly 10 years ago - today.

In 2001 I was in Haifa, Israel when this happened. I remember watching the news, talking to my family in the States, and seeing coverage as if watching a scene from a terrible movie. But being that far you don't actually feel the gravity of the situation and don't experience it in the same way.

This year that same place has become my home. I walked through SoHo last night and two parallel lights lit the sky in honor of those once standing buildings. And today's coverage shared the names of the nearly 3,000 people who died as a result of ignorance and hatred. As the names were read, 10-20 at a time, there would be a pause and a family member would remember their loved one and send a "message" to them. One little boy, about 10 years old, got up and began reading the names of those who had passed. And somewhere around "Goldstein" he stopped and remembered his father. "I never met you, Dad, because I was in my mother's womb when you died. But thank you for loving me enough to give me the gift of life. I wish you were here to share it with me."

I sobbed after I heard that. Because these, and many others, are the stories that were left behind. The stories that, once the media covered and showed and explained, were left to deal with the pain and the constant reminder of what happened that day. It's the sharing of those stories that gives reality to the names being read. Hearing those stories connects us to one another and demonstrates the humanity we all share.

I wasn't here when it really happened. But 10 years later, as I sit in my living room in Brooklyn, I am reminded and re-live the hurt, pain, and loss felt by many on that day, a decade ago. And all I can do is remember them in my thoughts and prayers and be constantly aware of the preciousness of life and be conscious what I do with the hours and minutes I do have.