Should I tell you about where I was ten years ago? About how I raced home and demanded of my soon-to-be husband that we pack the car and “GO.” “Where,” he asked. I didn’t know.
Should I tell you about the rambling answering machine message I left at the Connecticut home of the parents of my college roommate, who was in grad school at Columbia, doing internships and volunteering all over NYC? And that her email hours later was a huge relief, and in her typical under-stated style?
How about the hours I sat transfixed by the television, or the other hours I spent clipping and organizing news articles in some obsessive ritual to understand.
I breathed neither smoke nor dust. I attended no funerals. I bought the telephone book-sized Oxford Annotated Bible, and a copy of the Koran. I made favors for our wedding, married the only man who could keep up with me, and felt a deep, personal disappointment grow when my country went to war.
There is a personal-ness to this history that we all share. A personal-ness that the media must capitalize on because, in reality, some people do need it. But I do not need to know anyone’s dying words. It is not my business to know what it has been like to grow up without a parent who was never found. Or one who was.
Something irrevocable happened ten years ago today. My broken heart still manages to beat. I try to focus on the beating rather than the brokenness; even though the beating comes with the occasional pang. But, then again, every day, somewhere something irrevocable happens to somebody.
Live. Love. Be better. Every day. Because you have an “every day.”