Today marks twenty-five years.

September 11, 2001.

It seems impossible to write that. A quarter of a century has passed since a beautiful September morning became one of the darkest days in American history.

Those of us who were alive that day remember where we were. We remember the images. We remember the confusion before we understood what was happening, and the terrible realization when we did.

But twenty-five years later, I find myself thinking less about buildings and more about people.

People who went to work that morning expecting to come home.

People who boarded airplanes with plans for that evening, that weekend, that Christmas.

Firefighters, police officers, paramedics and ordinary people who walked toward danger because someone else needed help.

And families whose lives became divided forever into before and after.

There are adults walking among us today who weren’t even born when it happened. To them, September 11 is something they learned about in school.

To many of us, it still doesn’t feel entirely like history.

Time has softened some things. It hasn’t erased them.

Maybe remembrance isn’t supposed to keep us angry. Maybe its purpose is to keep us human.

To remember that behind every number was a name. Behind every name was a story. Someone’s child. Someone’s parent. Someone’s spouse. Someone’s friend.

Twenty-five years later, perhaps the best way to honor them isn’t only to remember how they died.

It’s to remember that they lived.

They laughed. They worried. They made plans. They loved people. They expected tomorrow to come.

Just like we do.

So today, I will remember September 11, 2001.

But even more than that, I will remember the lives that made that day worth mourning.

Twenty-five years later, they still matter.

And they always will.

Published by Jeff

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