On September 11, 2001, nearly three thousand people went to work, boarded a plane, or ran toward the danger and did not come home. Firefighters climbed. Passengers fought back. Ordinary people became the last line between more death and less. The country was publicly wounded. Then it came together and showed a resilience many had forgotten it still possessed. For a time, we remembered ourselves as one people.
Forgetting does not always look like denial. It can look like distance. It can look like a story told so often it loses its weight. It can look like a young person who knows the pictures but not the names. I fear this has already begun for some, and perhaps for many
“Never forget” was never a slogan for the already faithful. It was a charge to the living to tell what happened. Name the dead. Honor the courage. Refuse the idea that time can wash that morning away. Do not let the years turn that day into a faded story. Do not let time convince us the loss has grown small. Remembering the truth of that morning is not enough if we let the years soften it into just another date on the calendar
