I can’t think of another day of the year that’s known simply by its numbers. 9/11. Every other day in which we pause to remember has a name. Memorial Day. Veterans Day. Thanksgiving. Christmas. Even the casual reference to Independence Day frames it in the lyrical 4th of July, and not 7/4.Maybe we call it 9/11 because there’s no other simple name for it. Unlike Pearl Harbor the events of the day weren’t confined to a single location. Sadly, we can’t just say the Terrorist Attacks, because there have been other attacks on other days in other places. Or maybe 9/11 has stuck because of the resemblance of that second number to those two towers.Whatever the reason—and for many reasons—9/11 is a day like no other.On the thirteenth anniversary we’ll see a constant stream of remembrances. Politicians will go to events, news organizations will air special programming, and practically everyone with a social media account will post something with a version of “Never Forget” attached to it.Never Forget began appearing almost as soon as the attacks happened. I don’t remember where I first saw the phrase, but since that was before Facebook (Crazy, huh? A world before Facebook?) I probably saw it either on a bumper sticker or in an e-mail forward. And actually, at the beginning I think it had mostly vengeful connotations.A lot has happened since then though. What does Never Forget mean now? What does it mean after buildings have been repaired or rebuilt, after the man responsible for the attacks has been killed, after the man who planned the attacks has been imprisoned, and after the people whose lives were directly affected by the attacks have lived almost 5,000 days since then?What aren’t we forgetting? And are we remembering, or just not forgetting?Do we mean we’ll Never Forget how we felt when we first heard the news? Or when we watched the plumes of smoke? Will we Never Forget how scared we were? Or how confused? Or how worried?Or do we mean we’ll Never Forget the victims? We knew some of their names in the months after that day, but do we remember them anymore? Do we only think of them on this day? Will we Never Forget the people on those planes? Or the people at their desks? Or the people who faced a desperation we’ll likely never face? Or the people who went in to help and never came back?And what about the people left behind? Will we Never Forget the babies born after their fathers died? Or the wives and children who witnessed that exact terrible moment? Or the parents whose children didn’t outlive them? We can say Never Forget, but they really can never forget.It shouldn’t become a cliché. How often do we say “I love you” without really thinking about it? If we’re not careful it becomes trite and devoid of meaning. We run the same risk by just saying Never Forget, without actually taking time to remember something or someone specific.In Spring 2012, we took a family vacation to Washington, DC. On the way there we stopped at the Flight 93 National Memorial in Pennsylvania. It was a late March Saturday, cool, foggy. Just off of U.S. 30 we followed the winding park road a couple of miles over and around rolling hills. We parked and got out of the car, and I immediately noticed the silence. The site is in the middle of nowhere, miles from the nearest road or town.A path leading from the parking lot to the memorial is enclosed on one side by a short wall at a 40 degree angle, signifying the angle of the plane when it crashed. At the end of the path 40 large pieces of white marble each contain the name of a crash victim. The marble stands along the side of a path of black granite, which marks the flight’s path. At the end of the granite a ceremonial gate leads to the crash site. Visitors can only look through the gate at the large boulder noting the impact site 400 feet away.
Because of the weather, and by mere chance, we were the only people near the marble panels and the ceremonial gate for ten or fifteen minutes when we visited. My oldest daughter, who was four years old on 9/11, and so understands the importance of the memorial, looked around, read the names. My wife, as she so often does, took poignant pictures. My youngest daughter, just a year-and-a-half old, walked around without a care. And I stood with my sons—aged five and seven—and tried to explain why the memorial existed, and why we were there.And just like that day in 2001, nothing I said made sense. To them or to me.You should subscribe to this blog, don't you think? So why don't you just type your email address in the box and click the "create subscription" button. I'm not going to send you a bunch of junk, and you can ditch me any time you want.