Well, to be truthful about it, there isn’t much of a story to tell. I barely remember that day. I was 11, and in the 4th grade. I remember there was talk about airplanes hitting buildings on the way to school that morning, and when we got to school the teacher told us about what had happened.

I told people back then that I was too young to understand at the time, which is true. I understood full well that, while I didn’t get it then, it would hit me later on in life. And it has.

Even now, in my 19th year on this earth, it’s like an open wound. A sore that burns every now and then, as I remember the images that I shrugged off as a youngster. The burning buildings, the falling people…

It burns my inner patriot to remember. And yet, every year(usually on the anniversary), I watch a historical documentary of that day. It serves to keep that wound open for me. It may hurt to watch, but I know it’s good for me. I never want that wound healed, because the moment that it scabs up is the moment that I lose my humanity and my patriotism.

I don’t want to be the sort of person who can shrug off the death of thousands of fellow humans and countrymen. Not EVER.