memento vivere

Nine. Eleven. Two words that when put together will forever mean something to a vast majority of the present world. The denotation of a date that few will forget.

And yet… it seemed like this date faded into the background in recent years. Oh, there are random conversations that come up about where so and so was when the news came into comprehension. Inevitably any time I discuss my residence in England, I can’t really avoid saying that’s where I was. It formed most of my time there… and well… that’s a whole other story.

So we remember. I get that. I respect that. I feel it, too. But this year… well, why is it a bigger deal? It isn’t one of those arbitrary anniversaries like five or ten. Is it because there is a lot of silly, stupid anger about one of the locations where the day's events unfolded? Is that what has scraped off our pleasantly numb scab and made the wound fresh and vulnerable again? Or is it because now we have a way to publicly display the thoughts we should have? Because we are so linked in, we feel compelled to tell everyone that we are thinking about the obvious. That we see those two numbers together on the calendar and can’t help but to step back to nine years ago?

We remember. But if we didn’t, is that wrong? Is that really… shameful? Because how many other dates do we let fall off our radar? How many other atrocities fade with the distance of time? Is our memory of them not required because we didn’t live it? Or are we still expected to remember because we knew or are descended from someone else who experienced Pearl Harbor or D-Day or the Titanic sinking or Dunkirk or the Easter Rebellion or the Kanpur Massacre or the First Crusade or the Boxer Rebellion or the Armistice or Bergen Belsen? There are stones all over this world covered with lichens hiding names carved besides an urging to not forget. But we do. We forget as time passes and history books collect dust and we shift our grief to the next life altering horror.

Last weekend I was sorting through photographs and found a stack of pictures I took the day after at Buckingham Palace. I went there for the changing of the guard when they played the Star Spangled Banner for the first time ever. I saw a blurry gloved hand offer the Windsor wave from a window. But I was too far away to get a good look at Her Majesty. Because there were so many people there. So many people. So many people needed to come together to feel bad, to be glad to be alive, to show solidarity and love for the tragedy that happened across the sea.

I think I would rather remember that when thinking of the two words nine and eleven. How there was something horrific that made a miracle. That made strangers look at one another in the street and heave a collective sigh of shared sadness… and shared appreciation that we are still on this earth. I think that was the awesome thing that came from that infamous date… and sadly… the greatest opportunity lost.

In truth we all grieve differently. Some of us need anger… and there is a place for anger. But, sometimes – especially now – I think the anger muddies the memory. Remembering 9-11 isn’t lingering on the negativity, the lives lost or the chances forsaken. For me, it is a reminder that life can go at any second. That we can lose one we love or a solid sense of who we are without expectation. That risk is good to remember. But better than that, I believe so wholesomely, it’s important to remember that we all hurt, we all love, and we all hope that there will be no more numbers etched so vividly in our brain.

We are here to say we remember. We are here to live each precious moment. To love.