tuesday, september 11.
I'm sort of writing outside the box today, because the only emotional connection I have to this day, eleven years ago, is the fact that it happened to my country. Not my mom or my uncle or my brother or my daughter or my friend. But I do know what it feels like to lose someone, and whether or not it happened as suddenly or as tragically, I think the feeling is the same. They are still gone and you are still here.
That's what I think about when I think about that day. I don't think about what happened or where I was when I heard about it or the days that followed or even the war that's still in progress because of it. I think about the people, the ones whose lives were lost and the ones who experienced that loss. I think about their stories and how they were so drastically changed on that day.
It's eleven years later, and part of me thinks that after so much time, it has to be easier. But living without someone is ever really easy. I think it's more like, you learn how to live this new life which doesn't include that one person. It takes practice. And these people have had eleven years of practice.
But then, there are always those days–days like today–when you are so incredibly aware of the hole that person left that it doesn't matter how many years of practice you've had. It still has the power to break you.
And a Tuesday. I would imagine that every anniversary is hard. Every holiday. Every birthday or milestone. But I can't imagine what it must feel like when the day and date aligns and those people have to live through another Tuesday, September 11. I'm not sure all the practice in the world would ever be able to touch that.
Because it's not just another day of knowing what it feels like to live without them, it's like another day of remembering what it felt like to have lost them.